


The Little Apartment Building

by Precipice



Series: The Little Apartment Building series [1]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Because why the fuck not?, F/M, Gen, Humor, I REGRET NOTHING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several of Lovecraft's characters live in the same building. Hilarity, adventure and plot ensue.</p><p>TO BE EDITED (maybe).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Маленький многоквартирный дом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796134) by [for_owlman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_owlman/pseuds/for_owlman), [Kalgary_Nurse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalgary_Nurse/pseuds/Kalgary_Nurse)



**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors**  
  
It all started with the paper.  
  
It is a little known fact to outsiders that the occult community in the Northeastern states has a newspaper – _The Thaumaturgical Herald_ , with a total of four pages, printed on cheap paper and peppered with the strangest advertisements imaginable and pieces of varied information regarding the most recent findings, speculations and rumors; each small issue is so riddled with jargon, some passages resemble a jumble of blindly chosen words and even languages.   
  
One day, on a wonderful sunny spring morning to be exact, several people bought, borrowed or otherwise had access to several copies of the newest issue, and each of these people had to reread a certain advertisement, because it sounded too good to be true.  
  
 _Crowninshield House Apartments, 80 High Street, ARKHAM.  $30/mo. Four 2 BR/1BA apartments, one 3BR/1BA apartment - basement. Newly renovated. Group rites and rituals tolerated, with limits. Production and distribution of opiates of all kinds banned. Human and animal sacrifices banned. No dogs allowed. Cats are fine. Ask for Edward Derby._  
  
***  
  
Edward Derby, also known to some as Ephraim Waite, sat heavily on the armchair behind his crowded desk and gestured impatiently at the two men across him to take their seats. He could feel a migraine coming on.  
  
***  
  
His deceased husband had left him considerable wealth, along with a healthy body for Ephraim to transfer his soul into, but good things generally end as easily as they begin. So while Ephraim Waite still had a living piece of flesh to inhabit and a dry place to keep his books and magical equipment, he was running low on money to fund his traveling and dressing needs. The obvious solution – getting a job – had never been an option; Ephraim Waite, like any wizard worth his salt, had the social grace and people skills of a spoiled ten-year-old. It came with the territory, more or less – when one is busy learning by heart ten pages’ worth of Aklo and spends days nitpicking the symbols that go around the edge of a magical circle, they tend to neglect mastering the intricate art of communicating with commoners without getting punched in the face.  
  
So he called in one last favor from his old ‘friend’ Barnabas March from Innsmouth, who in turn had sent some of his workers in Arkham.  In a couple of months, the old house was divided into several apartments and the old furniture was distributed among them. Ephraim insisted to pay the workers with his last money, then calculated the monthly rent for each of the five apartments (keeping the last third floor for his personal use) and finally got in touch with  _The Thaumaturgical Herald_ ’s editor for the advertisement.  
  
And he waited.  
  
***  
  
“I recently sold my family’s old home to a relative of mine who was interested; I decided that I don’t need it, not really. I travel a lot, you see.” The skinny bespectacled man smiled at Ephraim with the bright happy smile of a person without a single care in the world. “It’s too much of a hassle, having an entire mansion to look after. So I figured it would be much more suitable to rent an apartment with a friend of mine...“  
  
The friend in question shot a quick glance at his companion. They appeared to be roughly the same age, but while the first man, Randolph Carter, was strangely thin and pale, as if he would disappear into thin air any minute now (Ephraim really needed something for his headache), the other, who introduced himself as Richard Pickman, had a dark, earthly quality about him, like he had just crawled out of a crypt. He was paying little attention to Carter and Waite’s conversation, preferring to crane his neck to get a better look at some of the carvings that covered the walls of the room.   
  
Pickman was also wearing a pretentious beret and had what appeared to be paint splattered all over the front of his shirt, the poseur.  
  
Ephraim gave a light nod back.   
  
“You said you’re both men of the fine arts. A writer and a painter, right?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed loudly. “Okay, here’s the deal. No more than two cats are to be owned at any given time.” Carter opened his mouth, then closed it. “No opening portals to other dimensions and no time-traveling on the premises of the building. No ghouls are to shuffle about the corridors, no corpses are to be kept inside the apartment except for immediate eating, no body parts are to be left on the floor for me to pick up later. Are we clear?”     
  
Pickman stared at him blankly, before suddenly grinning. His teeth seemed normal, until one noticed how they jagged their edges were.  
  
“You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?” he drawled as he leaned forward.   
  
“And you two are rather notorious, each in his own way.” Ephraim began scribbling on a piece of paper.   
  
 _Who the hell sold a copy of the paper to a thrice-damned ghoul? And an even better question, who in their right mind would share an apartment with one?_  
  
“Let me assure you, you have nothing to worry about.” Carter’s smile was gone. “We need a place to rest, that is all. If I… if we were planning to continue living as if we were still in the Dreamlands, we wouldn’t have left them in the first place.”  
  
Ephraim bit his lip and studied Carter’s face for a while, before speaking in a slow, clear voice:  
  
“You’re here to rest, and I’m Sister Rosa Maria from the little church down at Hill Street. Look, I don’t really care. I need the money, I have an entire building renovated and ready to rent out, and while I would prefer to have my kind of people walking in and out of this place, I’d much rather not have any problems with the neighbors and the local authorities. I hope you understand what I’m saying.”  
  
Carter nodded and crossed his legs, only to uncross them a second later. Pickman was still smirking. Ephraim could already smell the puddles of blood he would have to mop up from the corridors as soon as the painter moved in. Still, money was money.  
  
“Now where did I put the contract…”  
  
***  
  
“Just when I thought I finally got rid of your kind…” Ephraim grumbled, but made no attempt to draw out the gun hidden in the drawer on his right.  
  
The Deep One stared at him for a long while before replying. Its voice lacked the gurgling growl and the occasional croaks of the other Deep Ones; rather, it had an odd musical cadence to it. The creature was male (though who could really be sure with them) and very, very tall – over eight feet, not counting the three dorsal fins on the top of its head that ran halfway down its back, with smooth gray skin, like a dolphin. It… he was wearing the intricate armor of a certain warrior caste, which additionally baffled Ephraim – were they not supposed to be located exclusively around R’lyeh? Why would the bigfins send one, a lieutenant at that, on dry land of all places?  
  
“You broke your Oath, killed a female that rightly belonged to us, and yet you live. Your innards have had a high price set for them from the moment you did not provide what you were paid for, therefore you will continue serving the Order of Dagon if you wish to keep them where they are.”  
  
“Why did they send you here anyway?” Ephraim rubbed his temples and briefly fantasized of the bag of ice he had prepared back in his own apartment. “Surely I’m not the actual reason for all your troubles.”  
  
The Deep One quirked its rather thin lips before answering:  
  
“You are a tool, just as I am. Believe me, I find no joy in being here. The air is dry and foul, the food tastes horrible, and most of the humans I have met are obnoxious.”   
  
“You didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“I did not intend to.”  
  
 _Well, that’s that_ , Ephraim thought as he prepared the papers. He was curious, but he could clearly see the hilts of the pair of swords the creature carried.   
  
“I’m going to need to know your name, at least. Just a title is not enough.”  
  
“My name is O’ghihanuoakhaa’ravvyoa, which I believe translates roughly as The One Who Mimics The Dolphins’ Songs.”   
  
Ephraim just stared at the Deep One.   
  
“Or Khaa’r, which means simply Dolphin.”   
  
Ephraim coughed awkwardly. Khaa’r made a face that was equal parts embarrassment and irritation, with just a hint of self-deprecating humor.  
  
“Yes, I come from one of the bloodlines that encourages mating with dolphins, in order to produce stronger, more agile offspring.”  
  
“Also smarter. And a lot more vicious.”  
  
Khaa’r blinked lazily. The membranes he had instead of eyelids were perfectly transparent, Ephraim noticed, and a bit glossy. A more casual observed would not have noticed the blink.  
  
“So you took notes from your wife.”  
  
“I am only going to say this once – should you or anyone you have business with draw any unnecessary attention to this place, you’re out of here faster than you can say ‘bestiality’.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Khaa’r shrugged. “My roommate should arrive in a couple of days with the payment for this month, along with our luggage.”  
  
***  
  
“I want the basement. No, let me rephrase that. I need the basement. I can move in tomorrow.”  
  
Ephraim just stared at the man before him. He had the words ‘morgue technician’ written all over his face, stance and clothing.    
  
“Didn’t you get torn apart by the reanimated bodies you were experimenting on?” he blurted. “I can swear I heard something on the grapevine...”  
  
“Didn’t you get shot in the head several times in a row?” the other man countered without missing a beat. His expression somewhat softened. It was like watching an axe being deliberately dulled. “Try not to think too hard of it, or that headache you have been experiencing for the past few days will worsen considerably.”  
  
Ephraim gaped.  
  
“How…”  
  
Herbert West rolled his eyes and pulled out a pen from his breast pocket.  
  
“Just show me where to sign. I can pay for the first three months in advance. I will also require some assistance with the transportation of the heaviest equipment from my previous place of residence.”   
  
***  
  
Ephraim felt he could really use a drink. Or five.  
  
“Okay, okay, look here. For the past two weeks I’ve had a ghoul masquerading as a human, a goddamn zombie, and an honest-to-goodness Deep One rent an apartment each, but this is…”  
  
“Yes, Khaa’r. I’ve met ‘im. I’m actually gonna share the apartment with ‘im.”  
  
“What I’m trying to say is… wait. What?”  
  
The wretched thing dared to raise an eyebrow.   
  
Ephraim felt cheated. When he sent his advertisement, he expected to get… well, other wizards. Preferably of the gormless and conceited variety, those were fun to mess with. Most of the old school warlocks, like himself, were long gone, dead, either of old age or killed during a mucked-up summoning.  
  
This one, however, had obviously been kept away from the decadence that had been tearing down the occult scene for the past thirty years.  It was obvious, from the way the thing held its head, to the understanding look it threw at the direction of the amulets that cluttered the office, hidden in the guise of cleverly arranged wood carvings, and finally to the derisive snort it gave when it decided, yes, I could take this one out in my sleep. Oh, Noah Whateley had really done it! Ephraim remembered vaguely the rants of the old nutbar, about Yog-Sothoth and the Old Ones and the end of the world, yadda yadda, heard it all before.  
  
Ephraim had lost all contact with Noah more than fifty years ago, when the man finally went back home to his wife. He remembered his last card – Noah had written something about a daughter being born to them, and…  
  
“How old are you supposed to be?” he blurted out.  
  
The thing glared at him, before shifting to sit more comfortably. It was not an easy task, partly because of its ridiculous height. Plus there was the tail.   
  
“Lemme git this straight…“  
  
“Look, the second you mentioned your name, I realized who you are…”  
  
“… someone like me arrives, taller than the doorway, both mouths visible an’ all…“   
  
“… because I knew your grandfather, you see, and he would sometimes talk about your… father, I guess?... and I’d always think, this one sure was dropped on his head as a baby…“  
  
“… announces that they’re gonna room with a high-rankin’ Deep One, an’ when I say high-rankin’, I mean has- actually-been-inside-R’lyeh’s -Temple high-rankin’...“  
   
“… and decades later I hear rumors about Dunwich, of the worst kind, about a summoning gone wrong, and, get this, I shouldn’t really be hearing anything, since I think I got a revolver emptied in my skull…“  
  
“… ye’ve no idea what might be happenin’ round ye, an’ worse, ye want it to make sense – ye, with all yer experience… “  
  
“… all I want now is for things to start making sense, because they don’t. At all. And trust me, when you’ve been in this trade as long as I have, you learn to have your feet planted firmly on the ground at all times, even when you’re not sure whether there’s any ground to stand on.”     
  
They both fell silent for a long moment. The thing scratched its beard and smiled slightly. Before that, it had simply looked goatish, yet its face was unmistakably human. When it smirked, it transformed into something downright demonic. It was simply not right for any mouth belonging on a human face to stretch so wide.  
  
“I spoke to Mr. Marsh last month, an’ he mentioned that ye might regret lettin’ yer own kind inside yer house, money be damned.” It said conversationally. “I asked ‘im, do I look like I care ef Ephraim Waite sleeps soundly at night?”  
  
That got a startled laugh out of Ephraim.  
  
“You’re Noah’s grandson alright, through and through!”  
  
After Wilbur Whateley’s name was added to Khaa’r’s contract, they shook hands. This was not something either of them did with just about anyone.  
  
“Last time I checked, I was fifteen.” Wilbur admitted. “I’ve been told, ‘owever, that measured in… uh, metric ton o’ emotional baggage, I’m ‘bout thirty-eight.”  
  
“It’s okay, your grandfather’s mid-life crisis began when he was twenty-six. It’s probably genetic…“ Wilbur did not comment and made motions to leave the room. “And, uh, one more thing…”  
  
Wilbur stopped and stared at - well,  _down_  at Ephraim.  
  
“You mentioned something about mouths? As in, plural?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually pecked at the keyboard for a total of eight hours, ignoring the various distractions of the internet.
> 
> Okay, so Ephraim Waite turns his house (actually Edward Derby's house, but since he's supposed to be Edward... I give up) into an apartment building and advertises it in the local occult newspaper. His goal is to have a permanent source of income in order to keep his previous standard of living, and some companions around to entertain him, preferably wizards and cultists like himself, except a lot harmless in comparison. 
> 
> Instead he gets five extraordinary tenants whose idea of harmless is, in order of appearance: trying not to let their numerous enemies kill you; leaving sticky puddles of blood for you to slip on early in the morning; stabbing you in your sleep; beating you to death with a shovel and not injecting you with a reviving solution; and at last stabbing you in your sleep.
> 
> Ugh, I can feel a plot forming in my head... Is it a coincidence that all these people just happen to live in the same building? How do they manage to survive their presumable deaths? Who is going to rent the other two apartments? Will Dr. West get a roommate? Who is the editor of The Thaumaturgical Herald? Will Ephraim have his financial problems solved, and will he learn that there are more important things in life than money, like keeping his life and sanity intact?


	2. Sharing Is Caring

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 1: Sharing Is Caring**   
  
Herbert West’s apartment was ridiculously spacious, and what it lacked in natural lighting was more than made up for in terms of furniture, carpets and artworks. Its overall appearance reminded newcomers of a very comfortable cave.   
  
“Basically, I put all the extra fancy stuff here; I figured I might not find a tenant for the basement, ever.” Ephraim Waite confessed as he took his place in the armchair next to that of their host.  
  
“Well, I like what you’ve done with this place, even if it’s a hellish experience when the time comes for dusting and sweeping.” Herbert muttered as he placed two bottles of whiskey on the coffee table. “Alright, people; I’ll have you know I bought the set of tumblers precisely for this evening’s gathering. Here’s the ice…“  
  
The people around the table muttered their thanks as they began fixing their drinks. The first bottle passed from hand to hand rather slowly.   
  
“If there is one area in which humanity has surpassed the Deep Ones, it is the production of alcoholic beverages.” The Deep One, Khaa’r, admitted.   
  
On his left, Wilbur Whateley muttered something about drinking like a fish. They were sitting on the bigger sofa in the room, the one that stared directly into the massive fireplace. Their neighbors, Randolph Carter and Richard Pickman, had taken the two armchairs on the left.  
  
“You and Wilbur were very kind when I moved in, what with helping me with all my boxes.” Herbert gave Khaa’r a thin smile as he placed a small mountain of roasted mixed nuts in the middle of the table. “Even if _someone_  did attempt to read my notes…“  
  
“Can’t blame me fer tryin’.” Wilbur confessed shamelessly and took a careful sip from his glass.  
  
Khaa’r eyed him oddly before asking:  
  
“Were you not supposed to use only your tail-mouth for activities such as feeding and drinking?”  
  
His roommate shrugged.  
  
“I am, but Mrs. Marsh tol’ me it’s unsightly.”   
  
Ephraim chuckled at that: he could absolutely see Mrs. Marsh telling the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth to tuck his shirt in and sit up straight.    
  
“I’d really like to see you eat spaghetti with your tail, if you don’t mind me saying.” Pickman interjected before popping a pecan in his mouth.   
  
“Yer welcome to lunch anytime, but yer camera’s not invited.”  
  
Herbert coughed and stood up from his seat next to Ephraim. Everyone looked up at him expectantly.  
  
“I have two announcements to make.”  
  
Randolph shushed at Pickman, who pretended to be a squirrel by trying to stuff all the pecans in his mouth and succeeding.   
  
“First of all, I was promoted about a month ago and I now hold the position of Chief Autopsy Technician in Arkham’s morgue, which is why I live on my own while you losers are forced to share bathrooms.” Herbert fell silent and nodded graciously as they applauded him. “Secondly, after a whole year of unpleasant experiments under the constant threat of being strangled by my own reanimated ‘patients’, I have finally discovered an antidote to my solution.”  
  
At this, everyone jumped from their seats and began cheering. The doctor smiled sheepishly as he shook hands with his guests.   
  
“Brilliant! Now you can finally throw out the axe and the meat grinder.” Randolph quipped when his turn came. “Though I am sure Richard and his friends would mourn their loss forever.”  
  
“No more easy meals!” Pickman wailed dramatically, pressing the back of his palm to his forehead. “No more simply grabbing the next dinner as it twitches in a sack, carried by the currents of the Miskatonic River into our waiting arms!” He clutched his heart. “We shall surely starve! It’s back to nibbling at the half-rotten bodies in the cemetery, jostling each other like too many goldfish in a tiny aquarium…”  
  
Randolph’s grin waned at this, but Wilbur and Ephraim howled with laughter. Herbert allowed himself to smile for the second time this evening.  
  
“I wasn’t aware that I have been providing the ghoul community in Arkham with its bread and butter…”  
  
“Single-handedly at that, mind you!” Pickman winked at the host. “We knew your schedule by heart. Every Tuesday and Friday you would reanimate and subsequently chop up and mince at least one body. You would remove the bones beforehand, and a couple of hours before dawn, you would dispose of several bags of flesh by throwing them in the river from the Old Bridge.”   
  
“Yes, and did you know how many sleepless night I spent trying to hide my failures from my supervisors? I’d spend my weekends sleeping them off.” Following Pickman’s example, Herbert picked a cashew from the bowl and ate it, chewing gingerly. “It has really eaten into my social life, if you know what I mean.” His words were met not with another bout of laughter, but with a chorus of understanding chuckles. “Can you imagine how my life changes after this discovery? No more all-nighters. No more fiddling with the paperwork. All I have to do now is adjust the ingredients of the antidote in accordance to the changes made in the solution’s components, and after injecting the subject in the end of the experiment I can freely return the body in its proper place and none would be the wiser!”  
  
“I feel like I’ve found a friend ev’ry time someone gushes ‘bout ‘ow they’ve found the way to bend the existin’ rules.” Wilbur remarked and raised his glass in Herbert’s direction, who promptly toasted him back.  
  
They chatted for a while, Pickman managed to eat all the pecans, and Randolph soon found himself reciting several of his favorite poems at Khaa’r’s request. After that they talked about theater (some kids from Miskatonic University wanted to stage ‘The King In Yellow’; they decided to go there and throw eggs until the players started gibbering), art exhibitions (Pickman’s sudden reappearance resulted in several invitations to different events; Carter suggested that he’d probably draw more attention than the artists themselves; it was declared that Pickman absolutely must go,  _noblesse oblige_  and so on) and, of course, the world of the occult.  
  
For this part, Ephraim practically ran to his quarters to bring another bottle of whiskey.  
  
“Okay, my dearest tenants, time for confessions!” Ephraim announced as he refilled the empty glasses. “How did you survive your respective deaths? I want the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”  
  
“I remember being torn apart my ‘patients’.” Herbert started as soon as took a big gulp – for courage. “The pain, as you can probably guess, was… indescribable. My vision was white with agony.” He paused to place his glass on the table. “I woke up more than a decade later, in a small cellar of an abandoned house in the outskirts of Boston. I discovered that someone… or something… had sewn me back together.” Here he unbuttoned his collar and traced the almost invisible stitches above his collarbone. “Expertly done too, with a high-quality thread.”   
  
The whole room was silent, with the exception of the crackling fireplace. Ephraim mentally blessed electricity and the bright lamps he had installed everywhere in the house.   
  
“At first I thought I had finally gone mad; everything that happened after  _that night_  made it seem as if it was but a horrible nightmare… except that it wasn’t. By all that is holy, it was real and I have the scars to prove it.” Herbert picked up his glass again, only to put it down almost immediately. “To know such pain, and to be allowed to live – can you imagine a more ghastly curse?”  
  
“… And you’re continuing your experiments in this field, why?” Pickman’s clear voice broke the tense atmosphere, for which everyone was secretly grateful.  
  
“Because I think this is my second chance.” Their host answered plainly. “A chance to look at everything from a different perspective. To find the holes in my logic, the flaws in my methods. To bring a human being back to life – the right way.”  
  
“But that’s impossible.” Wilbur interjected. “How d’ye expect to bring someone to life without their soul?”  
  
“Soul?” Herbert pronounced the word with the same tone he normally used for the phrase ‘respect for the dead’.  
  
“Y’know, the spirit, the spark, the essence… that thing whippoorwills love to chase, ‘ellooo?“  
  
Now everyone was staring at Wilbur. He frowned a little, but deigned to continue his explanation.  
  
“Well, whippoorwills’re well-known fer goin’ after the soul when it leaves the body at its hour o’ death. They can smell death comin’ from miles an’ days away.”  
  
“Whippoorwill is a… a type of bird, right?” Herbert inquired politely.  
  
“Yup. I ‘ad some followin’ me all the way to Arkham last time I was ‘ere, an’ when I got killed tryin’ to take somethin’ from the university, they all swooped…“  
  
“The Miskatonic University, you mean?” Ephraim interrupted. “What did you try to take from there?”  
  
“A book, most likely.” Khaa’r answered instead of Wilbur. “He likes books. He feels a compulsive need to steal books of arcane knowledge from other people.”   
  
That earned him a shove in the ribs, which the Deep One ignored.   
  
“That is how I met him.” Khaa’r pointed at Wilbur with his thumb. “He tried to rob the library in the abandoned hall of the Order of Dagon. Since there were no priests left in Innsmouth, it had no guards at the time… except for me, of course.”  
  
“I don’t believe they’d send someone with your skill set to guard a half-deserted colony.” Ephraim muttered.   
  
“They didn’t.” Wilbur said, still glaring at Khaa’r. “’E was there to boost the morale, do some damage control, see ef Innsmouth’s populace can pay blood money fer the destruction of the Devil’s Reef… ”  
  
“We found the traitor – one of Marsh’s brood.” Khaa’r nodded at Ephraim’s surprised gasp.  
  
“His transformation had begun at the time, so we did everything we could to spare his life. He was sentenced to slavery.”  
  
“Meanin’ they skinned ‘im alive, an’ now ‘e’s to make tacky jewelry till one day ‘e stabs ‘imself in the eye with ‘is own chisel.” Wilbur translated in a sour voice before sipping from his whiskey.  
  
Ephraim and Randolph looked nauseated. Herbert coughed.  
  
“So Wilbur, you were telling us something about souls and how the whippoorwills chased yours…“   
  
“That they did, an’ they caught me an’ brought me straight to Sentinel Hill, back in my home village o’ Dunwich. My brother was long dead by then, turned to less than dust an’ forever outta my reach.” Wilbur threw Carter a meaningful look. “My father’s probably told ye ‘bout my twin. ‘Ow I was to look after ‘im an’ ‘ow I failed. I bet that, ‘ad ‘e ‘ad a choice, ‘e’d have brought my brother back ‘stead of me…”  
  
Herbert’s eyes widened considerably behind his glasses.   
  
“If your… father is capable of bringing people back to life, then…”  
  
Randolph did not let him finish.  
  
“I assure you, had Yog-Sothoth been…  _personally_  involved in your case, it would have called me to lead you back to the Waking World.”   
  
“I… beg your pardon?”  
  
“It’s a bit complicated, really. Yog-Sothoth is, essentially, a being that embodies all time and all space – something like a god, really. It also happens to be locked out of our universe. It resurrected Wilbur; it brought me back from near-oblivion and tasked me with leading him out of the Void and...”  
  
“I love this story.” Pickman whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “So Randolph got stuck in the body of an alien during one of his travels, and…”  
  
“I have traveled far and wide, both here in the Waking World and in the Dreamlands” Carter raised his voice over Pickman’s, “and I still do whenever occasion presents itself, despite… or maybe  _because_  of the mistakes I’ve made. After all, what are mistakes if not lessons for us to learn?” He smiled, and his smile was unexpectedly bitter. “I have never died, not really, but once I nearly lost everything I was because of my foolishness and arrogance… Yog-Sothoth… Wilbur’s father… helped me then – he tore me out of the prison Richard just alluded to, a prison made of alien flesh and alien soul, and I was allowed to return to my proper body, and asked to lead his son back here…”  
  
“… and on their way they picked me up from the deepest pit in all the Dreamlands. A lone ghoul is but a pathetic hitchhiker.” Pickman wrapped a hand around Randolph’s bony shoulders. “Quite a trio we were – the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth, unsure on his feet like a newborn lamb, a ghoul that missed wearing a beret far too much, and one of the greatest Dreamers to ever exist.”   
  
“Thankfully, ‘twas a short trip.” Wilbur muttered.  
  
“We didn’t have time for a single travel song.” Pickman lamented. “And we didn’t buy any souvenirs.”  
  
“Alright, so we have two resurrectees, one victim of body-swapping, and…” Ephraim did a count on his fingers; if he had to check twice because his mind was swimming in a pleasant alcoholic haze, nobody commented. “… and… so ghouls can more freely between the two Realms?”  
  
“As easily as you go on a voyage across the ocean. You need to be with friends, though; you cross the Atlantic more securely on a big ship than with a tiny sailboat.”  
  
“Yes, but… were you not born human?” Khaa’r inquired. “Or are there rituals and initiations that can make a ghoul out of a human?”  
  
“A ghoul doesn’t  _do_ ; a ghoul  _is_. It’s a lot more complicated.” Pickman took off his beret and ran his fingers through his thick dark hair. “Those who choose this for their fate are said to be born with the… potential of a ghoul planted inside them; likewise, when we finally change, we are left with a piece of our lost humanity to keep and remember, in case we decide to go back.”    
  
“So… yer still capable o’ turnin’ into a ghoul?” Wilbur looked incredulous. “I thought it was a one-way street.”  
  
“Once a ghoul, always a ghoul. Once a human, always a human. It’s like falling into a role you’re familiar with; like putting on a comfortable old suit.” Pickman explained.  “What about you, fishy? How did you die?”  
  
Khaa’r gave an undignified snort.  
  
“Do I look like I can be killed easily? I was born fifteen millennia ago and still live. I have witnessed the rise and fall of numerous civilizations. I have fought the great heroes of Hyperborea, whose bones now lie forgotten beneath the ancient ice in the north. I was part of the army that sacked Atlantis. I participated in the posse that captured a shoggoth to be used as Dagon’s personal servant...”  
  
“I knocked ye out with a leather-bound copy of  _De Vermis Mysteriis_.” Wilbur placed a hand on Khaa’r shoulder. “Yer drunk, go home.”  
  
“I know where you sleep.” The Deep One tried to point a threatening finger at his roommate’s face, only to jab it on the tip of his nose and upturn it comically.  
Ephraim laughed as much as the rest at that, only to have everyone’s eyes fixed on him.   
  
“What?”  
  
“Your turn, Mr. Landlord.” Randolph had the courtesy of refilling his glass before pouring some to himself.    
  
“’Ow did ye survive?” Wilbur demanded bluntly. “Yer… husband’s – hah, yer face’ll never not be funny, honest – yer husband’s best friend revealed yer penchant for body-snatchin’ an’ shot ye in the head. What then?”   
  
“I… uh, well… “   
  
“I admit, when I first heard the story in the morgue, about the architect Upton’s ravings and his subsequent suicide, I thought it was one of the many weird tales Arkham has always been rife with.” Herbert admitted.  
  
“I… don’t know. I just woke up in my bed, here in this house. I learned that Upton shot himself the previous day when I bought the evening paper.”  
  
Everybody was quiet for a moment, before Pickman, ever the restless spirit, broke the silence by voicing their thoughts.  
  
“Boo, your story is horrible!”  
  
And so the evening, filled as it was with alcohol, somber stories and solidarity, ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guys gather in Herbert's apartment to get drunk and trade backstories. 
> 
> We learn why Herbert lives alone, and also that his apartment is the fanciest; there's a lot of talking and a lot of whiskey; Herbert has finally put his life back together; Carter is still shaken after his run-in with Zkauba the Wizard; Pickman is a chipper little bastard; Wilbur and Khaa'r shed some light on the circumstances under which they met; and Ephraim's resurrection is still a mystery ;).
> 
> Also: Herbert West quotes Johnny the Homicidal Maniac and Pickman shares the critics' opinon regarding Ephraim's story.


	3. Peaceful Days

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 2: Peaceful Days**  
  
  
 **Day 34**  
  
CRRRRRRRRAAAAAA-AAAACKKK!  
  
The awful sound could be heard all over the street, rattling windows and causing the inhabitants of the other houses to peek fearfully out of their doors. The passersby froze in alarm, someone gave a startled cry; one elderly gentleman comically jumped upwards as he walked, clutching his small leather briefcase; a young mother pressed her little boy close to herself and looked around somewhat wildly; the carefully arranged pile of oranges on the stand in front of the grocery store collapsed, sending the round fruit rolling on the pavement.  
  
A rather well-known among the locals Packard stopped with a deafening screech. The driver, a middle-aged man with tousled blond hair and dressed in an extravagant dark blue suit, jumped out of the automobile and carefully closed and locked the car door, before stomping towards one particular building. His face was deathly pale, and a mixture of fear and anger was plainly visible on his features. He bumped into the elderly gentleman without apologizing and paid no attention to the neighbors as they regarded him with astonishment. His lips twitched grotesquely for a couple of seconds before he roared:  
  
“WHATELEY!!!”  
  
***  
The circle was a work of art, with its perfect lines and intricate sigils, drawn with some of the finest powder of Ibn-Ghazi ever made (and he would know about that; after all, he had mastered the art of its preparation when he was five years old). The incense chosen for this ritual had five different herbs in its make-up, all of which he had personally tested and singled out as the most effective for entering a trance-like state of mind, considering his rather unique biological characteristics.   
  
Satisfied with the ease he had set everything up, and filled with pleasant anticipation, Wilbur Whateley sat in the middle of the circle, twisting his freakish feet in a comfortable position and wrapping his tail around himself in a secondary circle.  
  
He began chanting.  
  
***  
Khaa’r was in the small kitchen of the apartment he was sharing with the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth for some time now. A huge stack of newspapers and magazines was placed on the table in front of him and he was reading each of them thoroughly, sometimes taking notes in a small notepad. The pencil looked tiny and fragile in his huge hand with four webbed fingers. His back was ramrod straight; the three dorsal fins were folded back neatly, as were the two pectoral fins on both sides of his face.  
  
Five pounds of fresh unbled meat were hanging on a hook above the sink, where a large bowl was positioned to collect the dripping blood. It was almost full.    
  
Their apartment was on the second floor of the building, right across Carter and Pickman’s place; it was small, overlooking both High Street and West Street, and crowded with their belongings. Numerous old tomes, most of them hand-written and stained with age, filled the bookcase. Folders with carefully composed notes and drawing and rolls of parchment filled out with star charts and calculations were gathered in the cupboard or spread on the hand-made easel nearby. A peculiar-looking telescope with dozens of filters in every imaginable color was set on one of the shelves. Two spears were placed in the umbrella holder next to the coat rack. A menacing collection of oddly-shaped daggers and throwing stars was arranged on the table in the living room. And finally, on a make-shift altar in the small alcove someone had lovingly set: a huge shield, adorned with the beastly image of a triumphing Deep One standing atop a mountain of human heads, their ghastly expressions skillfully cast, two wickedly curved and deadly sharp sabers, along with three helmets, an enormous breastplate completed with shoulder guards and a set of forearm guards, all richly decorated and partly gilded.  
  
From his position on the kitchen table Khaa’r had an excellent view towards both bedrooms. He could already see the faint light emanating from under the door of Wilbur’s room. The air was soon filled with the sharp smells coming from the other dimension.   
  
CRRRRRRRRAAAAAA-AAAACKKK!  
  
Everything shook violently for a couple of seconds. The armor and the spears clanked and an ill-placed book fell with a louder than necessary thud (probably one of the iron-bounds).    
  
Smoke began emitting from under the door, which suddenly burst open to reveal Wilbur himself. He stumbled backwards and collapsed to the floor, where he laid very still for a while, but not before kicking the door shut. Khaa’r thought he saw a brightly glowing… scratch, cut, opening of some sorts… hanging in the air inside the room, which quickly shrank and disappeared.  
  
In the absolute stillness after the rumble a voice was heard from the street:  
  
“WHATELEY!”   
  
Wilbur chuckled darkly.  
  
“It would seem” he began, his voice hoarse, “that nothin’ gits done ‘round ‘ere without Mr. Landlord hearin’ ‘bout it, huh?”  
  
Khaa’r scribbled something down before answering.  
  
“Do not fret, I doubt he will make good of his promise to gut you this time either.”  
  
“Eh, ye never really know with these geezers… ”  
  
“Pickman brought some fresh meat, like I asked him yesterday. Are you hungry?”  
  
“Starvin’. What’re we havin’?”   
  
“Veal, I believe.”  
  
***  
When Ephraim Waite barged in, he was greeted with an all too common sight for anyone who regularly visited the two inhuman roommates.  
  
Khaa’r was cutting a large chunk of meat into smaller bites, generously sprinkling some of them with a spice that resembled green sea-salt. The seasoned pieces were slowly but visibly turning grayish-blue in color as the salt melted. The unseasoned pieces were placed in a small plate in front of Wilbur, who was cradling a bowl filled with blood. His tail was wrapped around one of his arms and its tip was opened to reveal a long, snake-like tongue and a row of razor-sharp, almost transparent teeth. The tongue was delicately lapping blood, somehow managing to collect a string of fat drops in its creases.  
  
“… an’ in the end, I didn’t learn anythin’ I didn’t know ‘fore. A waste o’ good powder.”   
  
“Did your father at least confirm your suspicions?”  
  
“Yes, but I was sure of it anyhow.”  
  
They both stopped talking to stare at Ephraim, whose anger seemed to have vanished.  
  
“Y-you summoned Yog-Sothoth here?  _Here?_  In my house?”  
  
Wilbur rolled his eyes, exasperation writ plain across his face.  
  
“If I could summon my father ‘ere, time would stop an’ space would distort beyond recognition, an’ this entire planet would be ‘is for the takin’. But I  _can’t_. I can only… ” Here he frowned with distaste. “… talk with ‘im. Or rather  _at_  ‘im.”   
  
“How do you even manage to… to get in touch with Yog-Sothoth, when he’s supposedly locked outside of any known universe and dimension?” Ephraim sat on the only free chair left; the carefully-worded threat of eviction he had composed in his head was now completely forgotten.  
  
“Hey look, it’s not exactly a walk in the park!”   
  
“No, no, I meant to say, how do you do that at all? Is there a… a weak spot, or certain conditions to observe, or a…  _a whole rite_?”  
  
“It’s harder than it was in Dunwich, where I was begotten, but I manage. Sometimes even Khaa’r doesn’t know that I’ve called myfather, an’ we share a wall.”        
  
“… You’ve summoned him in my house before?”  
  
“… I thought you just liked the incense.”  
  
***  
    
 **Day 30**  
  
Herbert West, Richard Pickman and Randolph Carter were leaning on the edge of the bathtub, peering inside it with sick fascination.  
  
“Bert, this is it.” The painter finally gasped, his voice heavy with admiration. “The crowning achievement of your career. The feather in your cap. The pearl in your crown.”  
  
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Herbert said quietly, ignoring the nickname.  
  
Randolph slowly turned his head to look at the other two. Their faces were split in identical idiotic grins.   
  
“And this is why you’re both single.” He announced shortly.   
  
“Hush, you!” Pickman scolded.  
  
At the bottom of the bathtub, a tiny… thing was paddling about. It consisted of several hands, sewn together at the palms. It had three eyes, one green and two brown, all of which were blinking regularly. The thing rolled gracefully from one end of its container to the other. Pickman cheered by tapping out ‘Shave and a Hair Cut’ on the walls of the tub, since the thing had no ears.  
  
The thing stood very still for a moment, before tapping out the ‘Two Bits’. That caused the three men above it to sit up straight.  
  
“Muscle memory.” Herbert guessed.  
  
“… I’m so going to sew tiny tap shoes for it.” Pickman decided. “And I’ll teach it to tap out the Charleston.”  
  
“You’re not going to put it out on some street corner… are you?” Carter looked appalled.   
  
“Street corner? Hah! I was thinking on taking it to the Dreamlands; the fellows back there will absolutely love it!”  
  
“The ghouls like the Charleston?”  
  
“It was all the rage in Pnath before I left.”   
  
***  
  
 **Day 43**  
  
Ephraim practically slammed the jug of lemonade on the table and glared pointedly at the company that had assembled with practiced ease on the balcony of his last floor apartment. They did not even bother to look at him as they simultaneously stuck out their empty glasses in his direction for refilling.  
  
Herbert West, Randolph Carter and Richard Pickman had, at some point, acquired three pairs of identical sunglasses with garish frames. They were occupying the balcony swing Ephraim had installed recently and were currently tanning… as much as anyone can tan at six in the afternoon while wearing a long sleeved shirt and, in Herbert’s case, a straw hat.  
  
“For my birthday, I demand an honorary diploma that reads ‘The Best, Most Patient and All-Forgiving Landlord in the Whole Wide World’.” Ephraim growled as he poured the lemonade rather carelessly.   
  
“I hope you didn’t spit in this, Waite.” Herbert noted impassively.  
  
“Now there’s a good idea for next time…“ the wizard muttered and sat on the ancient lawn chair, letting himself sink in the pillows the other three had banished from the swing.   
  
“So…“ Pickman adjusted his sunglasses to wiggle his eyebrows shamelessly at him. “I saw the newest addition to our colorful company.”   
  
Randolph sighed.  
  
“I swear, if you make one more lewd comment regarding those girls…”  
  
“What, you’ll let zoogs nest under my bed till I apologize?”  
  
It was the dreamer’s turn to smirk.  
  
“No, I’ll simply tell Wilbur. He will take care of the rest, and I can promise you it’ll be something far worse than zoogs.”  
  
“You wouldn’t!” Pickman gasped.  
  
Randolph took off his sunglasses with a flourish.  
  
“Is that a dare?” he stuck out his bottom lip defiantly.  
  
“Only I am allowed to tease our troubled youth about his beau!” the painter cried. “You stay out of it!”  
  
“Wait, what?” Herbert flinched and almost dropped his glass. “Hold on, back up, start from the beginning and tell me everything.”  
  
Randolph and Pickman almost came to blows as they began explaining, interrupting each other shamelessly.  
  
“They met last year, a couple of months after Wilbur’s resurrection, deep in a forest near the White Mountains that is known for the presence of a certain mist, while searching for some portal…”  
  
“… which they didn’t find, because they kind of stopped looking for it after a while…”  
  
“… and since they are both… half-humans, they were understandably very excited to finally meet someone else who has gone through the same experiences…”  
  
“I think they spend several days in this abandoned cabin they found in the outskirts of the woods.”   
  
“Yes, thank you for mentioning that part and all it implies…”   
  
“It implies nothing! Rather, it clearly states…”  
  
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll kick you so hard you’ll limp for the rest of the week… Then they split up: Helen went to visit her relatives in the elves’ lands, and Wilbur continued to Innsmouth.”  
  
“… I bet they had to share a bed in the cabin.”  
  
Randolph paused to give his roommate a painful pinch.  
  
“They kept in touch, though. She found the advertisement for this building, and he recommended it to her later.”  
  
Here Ephraim chose to contribute to the story.  
  
“They are talking about the newest tenant, a Mrs. Helen Beaumont, widow, appears to be in her early thirties, red hair, green eyes, pretty in a too-exquisite-to-be-really-human way.”  
  
Herbert’s curiosity had gradually lessened during Carter’s narration.  
  
“Oh, seen her.”   
  
“Yeah, and Wilbur has the most ridiculous crush on her.” Pickman concluded lamely, his previous agitation deflated by the doctor’s reaction, or lack thereof.   
  
West puffed and adjusted his hat.  
  
“I wouldn’t know about that, but the lady, may Randolph forgive me this comment, is certainly infatuated.”  
  
“So you actually DO know everything!” Carter exclaimed.   
  
“No, I didn’t. I only knew that they had met before, seeing how easily Wilbur agreed to help her with her luggage when she moved in.” Herbert sniffed lightly. “I was convinced she was besotted when I ran into her yesterday, in Wilbur’s apartment.”  
  
“What?” Randolph almost choked on his lemonade.  
  
“Really?” Ephraim sat up lightning-fast.  
  
“Do tell!” Pickman propped his chin on his fist with a grin.  
  
Herbert preened at the attention.  
  
“I was there to tell Wilbur and Khaa’r that I’ve bought the eggs for ‘The King in Yellow’ and that I had secured the tickets. There was a knock on the door, which opened to reveal none other than Mrs. Beaumont herself. She too had obtained tickets for ‘The King…’, and she gave this long-winded explanation how her roommate didn’t want to go, and she had this extra ticket now, and wouldn’t Wilbur like to go with her, so that she wouldn’t be all alone?”  
  
Pickman broke into hysterical giggles that frightened a flock of pigeons from the roof above them.  
  
“You could practically hear the boy think,  _‘Now I’ll hafta act all proper while the others throw eggs at the hacks on stage. No fair!’_  “ Here Herbert did a spot-on imitation of Wilbur’s accent. “Khaa’r gave the girl thumbs-up behind his back.”  
  
“I take it that he accepted the ticket.” Randolph high-fived Pickman over Herbert’s head, their previous scuffle forgotten.  
  
“Yes, sir, and very gracefully at that.”  
  
“Are we still giving the play a new meaning of ‘yellow’, or…?“ Ephraim, for all his ninety or so years of existence, had his priorities straight. If there was one thing he considered a hobby, it was messing with young occult students till they ran away shrieking.  
  
“No, and before you ask, I returned the tickets.” Herbert outstretched the arm holding a glass to him. “Lemonade, please!”  
  
“He’s right.” Randolph said appeasingly. “It wouldn’t be fair to the boy, making him look bad in front of his dame. He hasn’t gone on many dates; let him have fun for once.”  
  
Everyone nodded and toasted Wilbur, wishing him all the best in regards to Helen Beaumont and their evening together. They sat silent for a while, enjoying the sunset sky and greeting the Evening Star as it appeared.  
  
“What about the eggs?”   
  
  
 **Day 44**  
  
“You do realize we still have about a dozen eggs each, right?” Ephraim inquired offhandedly as he prepared the baking pans.  
  
“Eh, we’ll eat omelettes for dinner for a week and we’ll use them up quickly.” Randolph was creaming butter and sugar together in a huge bowl. Next to him, Herbert was stirring in vanilla with the beaten eggs.   
  
They were on their second batch. On the other end of the table (the same one that West used for his home experiments and that he swore he had cleaned with three types of cleaning detergent), Pickman and Handy were dropping large spoonfuls of cookie batter on the pan. Or rather, Pickman was, and Handy was hanging around and tapping out fragments of a catchy jazz tune it had been taught a couple of days ago.  
  
“For goodness’ sake, man, stop licking the spoon!” Herbert snapped.  
  
Pickman started and looked up, before scooping up more batter and shoving it in his mouth in defiance.   
  
“You’ll get salmonella poisoning, those are raw eggs!” The doctor scolded him.  
  
“Please, I’ve been eating week-old corpses on a monthly basis for years.” Pickman cried out.  
  
“Just stop stuffing your face with dough already!!” Herbert’s voice became shrill.  
  
“No!”  
  
An egg hit the artist squarely on the nose.  
  
Ephraim and Randolph immediately ducked under the table as the battle began, eggs flying through the air in all directions and yolk and eggshells rained on the floor.  
  
“Well, look on the bright side.” Carter attempted to jest, “Everything here is tiled and should be easy to clean.”  
  
“The floor, the walls, even the ceiling are safe. The cover on the table, however… Fine lace from Germany, bought it during my honeymoon, had to stay in Munich for three days till my order was completed.” Ephraim looked as he’d swallowed a whole lemon.   
  
“Three days for a tablecloth?”  
  
“Twenty-seven tablecloths, in five sizes.”  
  
Randolph hummed thoughtfully for a moment, before reaching out and pulling the cover off the table. The bowls and the pans above rattled, but remained more or less in their places.    
  
Ephraim whistled.  
  
“Neat.”  
  
“It’s one of my many hidden talents, which by the way include guilt-tripping Pickman into cleaning and throwing out the garbage.”  
  
“Cleaning, huh?”  
  
“Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which West, Carter and Pickman become a terrible trio; Handy, a tiny abomination made of corpses' hands and eyes is introduced (and also learns to tap dance); Wilbur and Khaa'r's apartment is described along with the tenants' belongings and diets; Helen Vaughan, also known as the widowed Mrs. Beaumont, is mentioned; and Randolph Carter is a hidden badass. Also, pretty much no plot advancement, but you get Handy (with a silent H gawd, I'm so funny).
> 
> I'm tempted to write about the date in the next chapter, but also, I'd like to introduce more non-Lovecraftian characters... I know, I'll just combine the two!


	4. Interlude 1: Nightmares

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors**

**Interlude 1: Nightmares**

The sharp knocks on the window’s glass woke Richard Pickman faster than a bucket of water to the face. His eyes were wide open in a second, peering into the familiar darkness of his bedroom. The shape of the small chandelier, the towering silhouette of the wardrobe, the smell of paints and wine – it all enveloped him in a cocoon of realness and safety. He was at home. He was at home. Pickman took several deep breaths, enjoying the sound of air rushing through his nostrils, and rolled on his side, curling like a cat to suppress the shivering.

The knocking continued – tap-tap-tap, wait, he’s not getting up yet, tap-tap-tap, wait. 

“Coming.” The man growled from underneath his covers.

Tap-tap-tap.

Again with that nightmare... Pickman rarely dreamed, unlike Randolph Carter, who dreamed so much and so far he eventually became king of a city in the Dreamlands. For Pickman, sleeping was, at best, just a way to quickly pass the time, while fear was something he associated with accidentally dropping his camera, rather than phobias or a childish fright. 

In fact, it was his nonexistent self-preservation instinct that had worried his parents into an early grave – biting knives, running away from home to join the travelling freak show, spending months in Europe without writing a single letter home, and ultimately devoting his life to painting pictures of terrifying phantasmagorias. 

Tap-tap-tap.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Pickman would be the first to admit that indeed there was something inherently wrong with him, be it the constant state of anxiety or the inexplicable feeling that his senses were being dulled by his surroundings. He had spent his youth seeking an outlet - travelling, opiates, photography, art - and never finding it. So when the ghouls he had stalked in graveyards, sewers and abandoned mine shafts decided to adopt him, it was not because of his amiability and sincere fascination with their kind. It was them he had been seeking all his life.

Tap-tap-tap.

Ever since his return to the Waking World and to his human form, however, Pickman would occasionally have the same dream, usually on a moonless night – having his arms forced into a straightjacket and being thrown into a padded cell whose walls swallowed his cries of ‘it was real, I swear it was real’ and ‘please, let me go, they are going to worry about me’ and ‘help me, help me, please, help’. 

Tap-tap-tap.

Pickman convinced himself to get up, his internal reasoning being that he would not do the same for anybody else. He strode towards the window and opened it carefully, lest he tore it off the delicate hinges like Khaa’r had done the other day. 

The nightgaunt slithered in, as noiseless as a shadow. It whirled about in the middle of the room, mindful of its long tail and expansive wings, until it finally settled in a corner that was miraculously free of canvases. Pickman sat cross-legged on the bed and wrapped himself up in the blanket. The nightgaunt turned its head towards him and made a meaningful gesture with his shoulders. For a faceless mute, they were pretty expressive once you got used to reading their body language.

“I can’t go back, not yet.” 

The nightgaunt moved the fingers on his right front limb in the air, as if tapping impatiently. Pickman sighed and began explaining:

“I am preparing an exhibition right now, and I still have five more paintings to do...”

More finger-wiggling, followed by an angry swish of a tail. 

“What? I can’t leave everything like that. This used to be my life; it’s not something I can just deny myself. Tell the others I’ll be back in a couple of months, I promise.”

A hop to the left and a nod to the door. 

“I’m not doing this for Carter, okay? We helped him once, back in Pnath, and that’s more than enough to make up for Warren’s death.”

Pickman got up and began pacing back and forth. The nightgaunt seemed to observe him in mild alarm, judging by the position of its tail. 

“It’s not our fault Warren went to that tomb; hell, I hadn’t even begun my transfiguration at the time, so I couldn’t have prevented it even if I knew what he and Carter were up to...“

The nightgaunt wiggled its fingers some more, this time using both hands. It appeared to be saying something like ‘hey, take it easy’.

“I mean, I have nothing but respect for the poor fellow, for figuring out the position of the portal between the worlds and whatnot. But he should’ve known the risks. Hell, he probably knew more about these things when he died than I know after living for several years in the Dreamlands… yes, okay, I’m a true ghoul, and he wasn’t, but he could’ve at least carried a gun or something; I know I did.”

A startled jump backwards. Pickman smiled as he went to retrieve a half-full wine bottle from a cupboard.

“Hey, I might be silly, but I’m not stupid.”

He took a generous swig. The wine tasted like vinegar on his dry tongue, but he was parched and he didn’t feel like leaving his bedroom for water.

“I am going to have this exhibition and go home; if Carter has an ounce of common sense, he’ll follow soon after. Neither of us belongs to this world anymore; I have a family waiting for me, and he has the throne of Ilek-Vad.”

The nightgaunt tilted its head. Pickman almost laughed.

“Of course I miss them. How could I not?” 

He downed the bottle and carefully placed it in the paper bin. Then he walked to the nightgaunt and patted it affectionately between the horns. Without changing its crouched pose, the nightgaunt reached to tap him on the forehead, thus reminding him of the huge height difference between them.

“Oh, it was that nightmare again, nothing to worry about.”

Pickman returned to the bed and began fixing his pillows. He had seven. 

“It’s still nice when one of you appears to wake me up, though.”

***

Pickman's neighbors were not so lucky, their own nightmares being based on memories rather than subconscious fears.

Ephraim Waite often had dreams of being buried alive and suffocating, only to wake up with the covers over his head. 

Herbert West slept with the radio and lights on. 

Khaa’r slept odd hours. After a particularly unpleasant day, his dreams were usually filled with Shoggoths.

Helen Vaughan complained of a stiff neck from time to time, calling it ‘an old wound’.

Wilbur Whateley turned into a wreck every time he heard a dog bark, and refused to eat or sleep for days.

Nahab was very jumpy from all the coffee she drank in order to stay alert. 

And Randolph Carter refused to dream of his marvelous city, not until his debt was paid and he could return to it as a free man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking of writing some interludes for 'The Little Apartment Building' - because there are many scenes that I feel are important to the overall story but not so much to the current plot. Many things happened during the one year they spend living separately, and I'd like to focus on them - such as Khaa'r and Wilbur's first meeting, Helen's resurrection, Randolph, Wilbur and Pickman's trip back to Earth, Carrie's meeting with Adam and Ithaqua... 
> 
> In this interlude, Pickman gets a visit from a nightgaunt, the tenants' have nightmares and are still badly shaken from their resurrection.
> 
> (I have this theory that Pickman was one of Lovecraft's avatars and he specifically represented the part of Lovecraft's personality that enjoyed the macabre more than he'd like to admit. Pickman starts out as a painter fascinated with the bizarre and the horrifying, and ends up as a ghoul and a friend to both Randolph Carter and the nightgaunts Lovecraft feared as a child.)


	5. Something Outer This Way Comes

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 3: Something Outer This Way Comes**  
  
 _It was dark. And quiet. Nothing happened. Not a fleeting thought in her mind, not a smidgen of fear gnawing at her thoughts. Later she would think that was what heaven must feel like - absolute peace, blessed emptiness.  
  
Then something began moving…   
  
… like a pleasant stir underneath a warm blanket…  
  
… growing, moving, stretching… skin and muscle, blood and nerves and various organs…  
  
… whole again, healthy again …  
  
…  **alive**.  
  
The cover of her casket was lifted and its soft creaking woke her up.  
  
The first thing she saw was the face of the Dark Man.  
  
She took a deep breath and felt her ribs crack, the sudden rush of oxygen making her light-headed…  
  
… and she screamed.  
  
Hiseyesitshouldn’tstareatyouthedarknessdoesn’tstarebackthisiswrongIwanttodieagainplease._  
  
***  
  
“So how many?” Randolph Carter felt sick just thinking about it, but he’d be lying if he said he was not curious.  
  
“Three.” Ephraim Waite confessed shamelessly. “All on Samhain, in the span of about forty years. The first one was just after my thirty-first birthday; I think the whole ordeal is something of a local legend nowadays.”  
  
“Mine were five, in the span of ten thousand years.” Khaa’r’s tone had that hypnotic lull they had begun to associate with his more bloody war stories. “It is a great honor among my people, to lead the Solstice ceremony. There were three thousand other participants, and that is not even counting the choir that sang praises to Mother Hydra and Father Dagon. The finest substances were served to the people to keep them going. That particular ritual lasts for three days, and few have the stamina to last until the sixth gong.”  
  
“Ooookay. Anyone else?” The Dreamer craned his neck to look at Wilbur Whateley. “What about you? How many people have… “  
  
“You don’t have to talk about it if you haven’t.” Ephraim hurried to assure the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth. “You’re still very young.”  
  
Wilbur, who was pacing with deliberate slowness across the room, did not bother to look at anyone before answering:  
  
“Twenty-five hyuman sacrifices in five years.”  
  
There was a collective sigh:  
  
“Oh…”  
  
To elevate the tension between the three violent nut jobs (they were all crazy, no doubt about it; but there’s a fine line drawn between slaughter-a-man-with-a-pickaxe-in-the-name-of-Cthulhu crazy, and I-just-want-to-dance-in-spaaaaaace crazy), Richard Pickman whistled:  
  
“Don’t  _you_  look sharp tonight?”  
  
That immediately drew the attention back to the actual reason of their gathering, namely Wilbur’s new shirt. Wilbur’s new  _proper_  shirt, button-down and with a normal collar. And his cleaned shoes. And his date.  
  
“Shuddup.” Wilbur tried to answer in his usual blunt way and failed. His voice was a bit higher than usual.  
  
It’s hard to be taken seriously when you’re trying not to look anxious before your first date, especially if your so-called frie…  _companions_  are lounging about in your living room, watching your every move and snickering every time you drop something or twitch the wrong way.   
  
“Thank ye fer not makin’ a ridiculous good luck banner.” Wilbur checked his pockets and damn it, the ticket was still there. “Otherwise, I would’ve made the artist eat it.”   
  
If only he had somehow managed to lose it during the long three days it was in his possession…   
  
He’d have probably bought a new one.   
  
Probably.   
  
Positively.  
  
Pickman scratched his left ear in mock discomfort.  
  
“Well, I  _was_  going to make a huuuuge sign that reads ‘Go Get Laid!’, but Randolph decided it was crass… ”   
  
“You were planning to put it on the window overlooking the street and shout at random people, asking them whether they can read. And then make  _suggestions_.”  
  
It was amazing how those four had managed to squeeze on the couch, even if Ephraim was half-seated on the elbow-rest. Herbert was leafing through yesterday’s newspaper, looking disinterested as always. Randolph and Pickman, joined at the hip as usual, began a glaring contest. Near them Khaa’r had sprawled majestically on the armchair. Ever since they met, Wilbur had been feeling jealous of how comfortable the Deep One seemed to be in his own body, as if he had chosen it personally.  
  
“Just remember to open the door for her.” In spite of his decision to pretend that  _that_  one decade or so never happened, Ephraim actually had several enjoyable memories from his time as a female and now tried to remember what had made her…  _him_  happy during the time spent with Edward Derby. “And… uh, hold her purse, I think?...”  
  
“Like hell I will!” Wilbur snapped.   
  
“Everything will go smoothly.” Khaa’r reassured him and reached out to touch him lightly on the wrist. It was a very meaningful gesture among his caste, meant to warn the receiver of the touch that they were nervous for no reason, okay, now drop the knife and release the poor man you’re about to gut, for goodness’ sake.   
  
There was a knock on the door.  
  
Everyone looked around in confusion. Herbert looked up from his reading and counted the people present to make sure nobody was missing.  
  
Wilbur cast them a last warning look and slunk out of the apartment as fast as he could, allowing them to get only the briefest glance of Helen Vaughan’s face and attire.   
  
That one glance was more than enough. The contents of the woman’s wardrobe were well-known and instantly recognizable because of their uniqueness and extravagance.  
  
“She was wearing a green dress.  _The_  green dress, if I’m not wrong. And the silk coat with the golden butterflies all over it.” Pickman bounced a couple of times on his seat with excitement, almost making Ephraim fall off.  
“Now I can sleep peacefully!” Herbert remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  
***  
The play was going to be in a small and rather dingy music bar near Miskatonic University that had once been frequented by Asenath Waite and her yes-men. It could barely contain thirty people at most, and for the show the organizers had brought chairs of all shapes and sizes to accommodate the expected guests. Helen had visited the place once before and described the morose atmosphere inside, the unpleasant smell of the incense the owners used, and the garish pictures of various magical symbols that hanged on the wall.  
  
“They put the candles straight on the tables, can you imagine?” Helen laughed. “How quaint!”  
  
“Do the waiters wear long robes embroidered with stars an’ crescents too?” Wilbur smirked and was rewarded with a charming giggle.  
  
“No, but the wine is served in goblets.”  
  
“Huh, so it’s true then. The occult scene’s really been decayin’, ef nowadays it’s just a scene an’ nothin’ more…”   
  
“Most modern practitioners speak of ‘good’ and ‘evil’.” Helen sighed and sneaked her arm around Wilbur’s. “They speak of my father as if he’s humanity’s patron, protecting them from the malevolent Outer Gods.”  
  
It was a lovely evening, just cool enough to make their stroll pleasant. The breeze that roamed the quiet streets of Arkham carried smells from the river and the many unkempt gardens, giving the air that specific aroma typical for May and the beginning of June, heavy with the promise of a beautiful golden summer.  
  
“Do we really hafta go to the play?” Wilbur heard himself ask. “We’re ‘avin’ far too good of a weather to waste it gittin’ crammed inna pretentious matchbox of a bar.”  
  
Helen raised her startlingly green eyes to meet his and grinned, her teeth glimmering in the yellow light of the street lamps.  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t try to sit in your lap if there are no other comfortable seats.”  
  
***  
  
 _There was movement around her, constant and chaotic, as if trains were passing a hair’s breadth away from her. She kept her eyes tightly shut ever since her arrival, because that first single glimpse scared her more than anything, even if she wasn’t exactly sure what it was that she saw. The sounds that filled the space were beyond description, but not as bad. She could feel them interfering with the beating of her heart, which had begun to thump in unison with a certain high-pitched note that occasionally rose above the other noises.  
Sometimes she could swear she heard words and syllables being pronounced somewhere not too far away from her.  
  
After an eternity passed, silence came, and for a moment she thought she had finally gone deaf. A stone floor appeared beneath her feet out of nowhere, and the air became warm and dry.   
  
She began breathing again.  
  
Something warm and dry touched her eyelids, pried them open.   
  
“Momma?”  
  
The woman before her blinked and her mind fell open before her like a dropped book.  
  
She was just like her Momma. Such devotion, etched into the very core of her being...  
  
Almost instinctively, she reached out…  
  
… and made the woman’s heart squeeze into itself until it was half its size. Her agony felt so right, and she finally felt some peace again.  
  
Her hair was then grabbed and pulled gently, like a kitten’s tail, until she finally turned around and saw him.  
  
She began screaming again.  
  
Ohgodpleasemakeitstophisfingersinherhairandonherfacenodon’tI’lldoanythingIpromise…  
_  
  
***  
  
No matter how renowned, brilliant or revolting a work of art is, be it a musical piece, a novel, or a play, should it be introduced to the audience by a talentless hack, it quickly loses its power to influence people. A badly played concerto, a dully recited poem and a play performed with inept gestures and stuttering can disperse the audience faster than the hint of smoke in the hall.  
  
At least, that was Helen’s opinion, which was whispered angrily to Wilbur in their dark corner. The woman felt cheated and she apologized profusely for dragging him here to suffer as the skinny creature on the stage doggedly read the lines from a hand-written page.   
  
“This is still Act I. Wait till the second part. My grandfather used to tell me a short version o’ this play ‘stead of a bedtime story.”  
  
“You had a fantastic childhood, then.”  
  
“Ye could say that… Wait, what’s goin’ on…”  
  
Helen blinked in confusion.  
  
“That’s not ‘ow Act II begins. They’ve changed the play.” Wilbur looked appalled as he began listening more carefully, his expression getting more and more sour with each word.  
  
“It’s an edited version.” A croaking voice answered.  
  
They turned simultaneously to the old lady on their right. The smile on her face made her resemble an old wrinkled apple. She was dressed rather plainly in brown, as far as anyone could tell in the dark, and her bony hands cradled a rather large handbag in her lap. Her white hair was worn in a long plait that was wrapped around her neck like a scarf.  
  
“The general public has shown a renewed interest in ‘The King In Yellow’, so the play was changed to preserve the mental health and well-being of both actors and audience.” She explained with a rather nasty smirk. “Quite innovative, no?”  
  
“An’ who’s the kind soul behind these changes?” Wilbur literally bared his teeth at her, as if it all was somehow her fault.  
  
“The head librarian of the University, I believe.”   
  
“Armitage, of course.” He muttered before turning to Helen. “One o’ these days I should really pay ‘im a visit… “  
  
Helen smiled at the old lady apologetically.  
  
“He’s a fan of the original.” She explained. “I don’t think we’ve met before, I’m known to my friends as Mrs. Beaumont. And you are… “  
  
“Call me Miss Nahab, dearie.” The last word carried enough poison in it two syllables to poison a well for a year.  
  
“Well, I won’t be invitin’ ye over fer tea, so it’s all the same to me.” Wilbur threw one last irritated glance at the elderly woman before focusing on the perversion that was being played on stage before the entranced audience.   
  
He could swear he heard someone confess the play wasn’t scary at all. Scary, can you imagine? His grandfather had revealed to him that, should the play be performed in a certain way, The Unspeakable One, having taken the form of the titular King, would appear and take the one who summoned it to the legendary city of Carcosa, in the star cluster known to humanity as the Hyades. He tried to imagine what kind of world would accommodate The Unspeakable One, and entertained himself by envisioning a dark planet whose vast skies offered far better sights for his telescope to find and study than those of little ol’ Earth.   
  
Helen used his reverie to gently lace her fingers with his and smiled when he subconsciously squeezed her hand.    
  
Miss Nahab continued staring at the two, unperturbed by Wilbur’s gruff tone, and Helen noticed the odd look in her eyes, as if she was pleasantly surprised by something. Then her expression suddenly changed – the beady black eyes popped out, and her mouth formed a little ‘o’.  
  
The old woman stood up from her place, carefully slung the handbag on her shoulder and hurried towards the rear entrance of the bar. Helen did not lose sight of her as she gently pulled at Wilbur’s sleeve.   
  
“I think something is wrong… “  
  
“Yer damn right somethin’ is wrong, those imbeciles are spittin’ all over one of hyumanity’s greatest achievements an’ we’ve paid to watch ‘em do it.”  
  
Helen sighed delicately.  
  
“No, I mean… “  
  
“The rhymes are cheesy, the characters make absolutely no sense, an’ ef this whole charade ends with a ‘they lived happily ever after’, I swear I’m settin’ this place on fire.”    
  
Helen opened her mouth to say something but then Wilbur began stroking the top of her hand with his thumb and that was something she decided to concentrate on instead. And if he was bitching about the stage decoration and the badly sewn costumes in the meantime, well, nobody was perfect.  
  
***  
  
 _She missed the safety of the chaos, where she was just a little speck of dust, too small to be in anything’s way. More than that, she missed the solitude of the grave.  
  
His attention was focused entirely on her when he locked them both in that small stone room that lacked a door and windows   
  
(like a music box, and when you open it, the tiny ugly doll appears and starts twirling in a mindless dance)   
  
She tried to close her eyes, like she did before, and find a safe place inside herself to hide but to no avail. Cool hands  
  
(ohpleaseletitbehandshandsIknowhandsIcanhandle)   
  
would run unpredictable courses up and down her face and her back, their long fingers dancing and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Her bones seemed to harden (to pluck them out easier later, my sweet) and her skin would ache as if the muscles underneath it were slowly decomposing.  
  
Sometimes he would talk. About gifts (you are one, my sweet), about power (like a mountain spring, before turning into a great river), about consummation (I could be your river, my sweet), and about masks (I have so many, and yet I still need more).  
  
He would talk a lot about masks.  
  
Sometimes the woman who resembled her mother would appear, only to be shooed away with a single gesture.  
  
Let me wear you, he would say. Like a mask, like a beautiful mask, like a crown. I can give you so much more power than you ever had, I can make you so much more than you ever were. Your world wronged you. I can make it right. I will even let you help. I will place you on a throne like no other else, and you will be a Queen, painted Crimson with blood and fire and exaltation.  
  
In the forced stillness of her mind, something clicked, the box was about to open and spill its contents…  
  
Crimson…  
  
Crimson.  
  
Red. Red. Crimson. Blood.  
  
There was a red dress…  
  
… and then there was blood…  
  
… and then her world ended.  
  
“Your promises are nothing but lies.” Her voice had never sounded so beautifully in her ears, an entire symphony from a tiny music box.  
  
His fingers paused their dance and his mouth opened slightly. She looked him straight in the eyes and this time she did not falter.  
  
Her mind felt the walls around her.  
  
“Let me go.”  
  
She pushed at the walls and they easily broke apart, the pieces flying into the abyss that surrounded them in all directions. The chaos from before her imprisonment greeted her and she felt her heart skip a beat or two in order to follow the now familiar rhythm.  
  
She turned her back to the Dark Man, and faced his master. _  
  
***  
  
Luckily for the owners of the bar, the play ended on a rather somber note. Nothing was summoned though, nobody died a cruel and unusual death (neither characters not actors), and the madness-inducing content of Act II was severely toned down. For Wilbur, it felt like reading a cheap paperback romance novel after a lifetime spent devouring the greatest classics in literature.  
  
That is to say, it left a very bad taste in his mouth.  
  
Everyone stood up to applaud the actors. Wilbur and Helen prepared to leave as quickly as possible.  
  
“Never thought I’d say these words, but this is blasphemy.” He muttered.  
  
“There, there, don’t let it get to you.” She agreed cheerfully, because he was still holding her hand and by all the gods watching over them, this evening went far better than she’d expected.  
  
Wilbur suddenly froze in place.   
  
A smallish old man, his white hair and beard practically glowing in the poorly lit hall, had climbed on stage with the help of the actors. The audience began clapping even louder than before. The man looked around, beaming, before raising his hand to silence the cheering.  
  
Wilbur let go of Helen’s hand, but not before leaning to whisper in her ear.  
  
“This is Armitage.”  
  
“The man who made ‘The King In Yellow’ human-friendly?”  
  
“The man who killed my brother.”  
  
He  _had_  mentioned to her that several professors from Miskatonic University had banished his twin after Wilbur’s untimely death, and also that there was no force in this universe capable of bringing his sibling back from oblivion.  
  
Helen knew better than to get sentimental.   
  
“From what I’ve gathered from our previous conversations, you weren’t very fond of your twin.” She tapped a finger on her chin. “And when you refer to him as such, your voice gets that sarcastic tone usually reserved for my roommate’s brother.”  
  
“Please!” he scoffed. “This ain’t ‘bout familial love, or bein’ the last o’ my kind; it’s ‘bout Armitage bein’ a prick. An’ so is princess Nuala’s brother.”   
  
“You’re not getting into a fight.”  
  
“ ’Course not.”  
  
“And you’re not making a scandal. Mr. Waite wants us to be incognito.”  
  
“Mr. Waite was all fer us comin’ ‘ere an’ throwin’ eggs till the actors ran away cryin’.”  
  
“Also, I’m not helping you with whatever revenge you might be planning to take on the man. I mean, look at him – he’s easily pushing eighty.”  
  
Wilbur looked at her incredulously.  
  
“Wasn’t gonna ask ye fer help anyway. Ye won’t do.”  
  
Helen’s right eye twitched slightly.  
  
“What?!”  
  
A more clever being would have kept their mouth shut. Wilbur, however, possessed the surviving instincts of an adventurous toddler when faced with a drawer full of very shiny knives.  
  
“D’ye even know  _any_  magic that doesn’t require takin’ yer clothes off?” he said matter-of-factly. “A curse to bring ‘im bad luck; a bindin’ spell to keep ‘im away; something that can alter reality inna second, fer a second, or at least make another person lose their lunch along with bits of their digestive tract?”  
  
Helen glared and stepped slightly away from him. He didn’t notice, choosing to focus on the stage where Armitage was talking about the importance of simultaneously being well-versed in the secrets of the universe and having a finely set moral compass to guide one through life, in order to be able…   
  
“… to recognize the dangers lurking at the very edge of sanity. There is no piece of knowledge, no amount of gold and no fleeting promise of power in this world worth losing your humanity for. This is all I have to say, this is all my life has taught me. Thank you for joining us this evening! Bless you and good night!”  
  
More cheering, as Armitage carefully climbed off the stage.   
  
Wilbur took a step back to the wall, where his dark clothing allowed him to blend in with the shadows. Next to him, Helen could feel her anger steadily transform into pure rage, like a sword being sharpened before battle. She heard him mutter:  
  
“I should probably teach ye some o’ that.”   
  
Her light-hearted tone could cut through armor, flesh and bones.  
  
“As if  _you_  could teach me anything. How presumptuous for an unworldly lad such as yourself, and how typical for any secluded wizard.”  
  
That caused him to flinch slightly before hanging his head in embarrassment, to her eternal surprise. The people were leaving now, stretching their shoulders, putting their coats on and talking animatedly. Nobody paid any attention to the pair in the darkest corner.  
  
“There’s no reason a child of Nodens shouldn’t know any o’ those things, even ef ‘is domains are killin’ things fer fun an’ runnin’ half-naked in the woods.”  
  
So much for a simple ‘sorry’. Helen gave a barely audible sigh.   
  
“It’s decided, then.” Wilbur grinned, just like Pickman would when something not very nice was about to happen to Ephraim’s precious tablecloths. “Tomorrow, yer gittin’ a crash course in the basic principles o’ magic, then we start with the main symbols an’ some Aklo an’ we’ll make our way from there. With enough practice, ye’ll be able to summon yer father an’ other relatives in the middle of the city, miles away from the nearest forest…”  
  
Why did she like him so much again?  
  
“You do realize I kind of hate you right now, don’t you?” Helen snapped.   
  
“Yes.”  
Their eyes met just as Wilbur reached out to clumsily lace his fingers with hers.  
  
“And I don’t want ye to.”  
  
Almost despite herself, Helen felt her anger subside. Her mouth quirked into a pleased little smile when he gently tugged at her to come closer to him.  
  
“Well that’s adorable.”  
  
Henry Armitage had made his way through the dwindling crowd to sit comfortably on a nearby chair and rest his chin on his palm. A folder, no doubt containing the script of that abomination of a play, sat on the table next to him.  
  
Wilbur’s expression and stance did a smooth transition from  _‘I adore ye so much I wanna bash my own head in that’s how ridiculous I feel’_   to  _‘I hate ye so much I will gladly bash yer head in that’s how repugnant ye are’_.  
  
A certain distance from them, two of the actors were watching intently the librarian, fear and worry plainly visible on their faces. Helen sized them up. One of them was the skinny creature with the stutter. They were most certainly students from the university and in less than a decade would probably begin to resemble Randolph Carter with his thinning hair and penchant for questionable hobbies and friendships.   
  
Mr. Carter had once described his youth to her quite vividly – an idealistic child, not much older than those before her, bewitched by the exotic of the occult, after long years spent sitting on the pew in his parents’ preferred church; eager to discover and revel in the mysteries of the universe; believing the world was his oyster.  
  
They probably ate up every word that came out of the librarian’s mouth. That creatures like the monstrous Wilbur Whateley and his abomination of a brother could be defeated easily, as long as you did your homework and read the required books.   
    
“I heard your dying scream. I still hear it echoing in the library after the sun has set.” Armitage seemed to be in full control of the situation, his voice was even and clear. “I can testify that your blood is green, and that you don’t have a decent bone in your body.  _I watched as your corpse melted on the floor._ ”  
  
“I bet I left a stain.” Wilbur spat at him.   
  
“You did.”  
  
“I hope yer not too attached to this shack after tonight’s show. What’s next, a colorin’ book version o’ the Necronomicon? ”  
  
Armitage furrowed his brow in thought, as if he contemplated the idea before ultimately rejecting it.   
  
“How’s your twin brother, by the way?”  
  
“Still dead.”  
  
“It almost destroyed Dunwich, I’ll have you now.”  
  
“All it knew of the outside world an’ humanity, it learned from me. An’ I taught it well.”  
  
Armitage made a disdainful face at him. Wilbur ignored it and came out of the shadows. The two young men appeared startled and then astounded, giving him a once over, obviously shocked to see someone this unnaturally tall. Helen guessed they were trying to pin-point exactly what was wrong with the creature standing in front of them, since it looked a lot like a human, but so did mannequins in the more expensive boutiques…  
  
Wilbur went round the librarian’s chair, his long tail forming a semicircle, before placing an arm on the old man’s shoulder and leaning in to whisper in his face:  
  
“Like it or not, my father – ye know who that is, right? – brought me back, an’ this time I’m stayin’. I need to ‘ave serious words with ye about the play, but later. Ef ye send anyone after me, I’ll kill ‘em an’ leave their head at yer front door. Yes, I know where ye live. Didja git all that?”  
  
The old man ignored the tail whose tip had opened to reveal several needle-like teeth and a long serpentine tongue which began twisting in the air, inches away from Armitage’s face.   
  
“A lot of strange things have happened during the last year.” The librarian was yet to show any discomfort, instead choosing to be as readable as an empty piece of paper, and Helen realized that Wilbur had a damn good reason to want him out of his way. “Some of them are horrible, and most raise a lot of strange questions that are better left unanswered. Rest assured that your presence shall be monitored more closely than you can imagine; and I swear, if you step out of line, you will have the brightest minds of Miskatonic University on your trail. I’ve begun teaching selected students about your kind.”  
  
“Only a self-entitled idiot like yerself would drag young minds into the abyss ‘stead of ‘avin’ the courage to fall alone.” Wilbur sneered, before straightening up. “Why do I even bother?”  
  
Meanwhile, Helen decided it was high time for her to be losing her patience.  
  
“Are we leaving already? Or would you like to have some tea with your old friend and hiss at each other for old times’ sake?”  
  
Armitage deigned to look at her, before taking his glasses off, cleaning them carefully with a clean handkerchief and putting them back on.  
  
“And you are…”  
  
“For you, sir, I am Mrs. Beaumont. And that is all you need to know.”  
  
“She takes after ‘er father, too.” Wilbur added with one of his rare, far-too-wide-to-belong-on-a-human’s-face grins.   
  
“I am also very disappointed. I insisted on seeing this play because Wilbur speaks very highly of it; instead, I get a cheap knock-off. Maybe you should have called it ‘The Marquis In Beige’, to warn people in advance.”  
  
With those parting words, Helen went on to grip Wilbur by the elbow and lead him outside. He followed her with only a token struggle, but made sure to turn around and give an obnoxious salute before walking through the door.   
  
Armitage sighed as the woman’s distant laughter reached his ears.  
  
“One of you gentlemen should’ve brought a shotgun.”  
  
***   
  
“I wonder if your arch-enemy has any suspicions regarding the death of that poor boy I played with last week.” Helen laughed as she wrapped both of her hands around Wilbur’s and pressed her cheek to his coat’s sleeve.  
  
She felt Wilbur tensing at the mention of her last victim and purred.  
  
“Come now, it was all in good fun.”  
  
“Ye still ‘aven’t given me an autograph on that first page in the newspaper.”  
  
“Do you still keep the clipping?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Helen extended an arm to playfully pinch his cheek. They were even now, she supposed.  
  
“Then… are you still going to teach me a spell or two, like you promised?”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Well, while you mull over it, I sure as hell won’t be teaching you any of my magic.” Helen glanced up to see him eye her oddly. “Also, next time we go out, I’m bringing my shotgun, just in case.”  
  
It took Wilbur a couple of seconds to process all that.  
  
“Ye’ve got a shotgun??”   
  
***  
  
Miss Nahab, also known as Keziah Mason, walked as fast as she could, clutching the key for her front door like an amulet. The street she lived on was rather dark because of the old trees that partially blocked the light from the few lampposts.   
  
She would occasionally look around, peering into every shadow and searching for that frightful outer silhouette. Her pursuer’s presence in this world could be felt by anyone who was consciously trying to pick up similar trails. Nahab could sense her movement even better, after almost losing her life to the girl’s extraordinary power. She would still relive their brief clash in her nightmares. She secretly feared that one night she wouldn’t wake up in time to calm her frantically beating heart before it bursts in her chest.  
  
Even worse than that, than the feeling of your body being destroyed from the inside, was the memory of the girl invading her mind, her thoughts, flipping through them like a child searching for the colorful pictures in a big book. It made Nahab curse at her curiosity and thank her master for protecting her against the outer creature he himself had brought from the other universe.  
  
Her master recognized how useful and talented Nahab was, especially now, after she had cleverly used the sudden, short-lived commotion that shook their universe to its foundations to more or less travel forward in time – something only the Great Race of Yith were considered capable of. He had also helpfully revealed to her the reason for the whole racket and, just as her luck would have it, when Nahab finally ran into the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth, bless the child’s skill in hiding, her pursuer finally managed to pinpoint her exact location.   
  
It made her sick, being forced to lie low in boring old Arkham, her past journeys through space and time postponed until the cracks in the universe repaired themselves, making travelling safer. And now she had another reason to hide – the girl came back, after being gone for several months, no doubt studying the world whose sky she had dropped out of like a falling star.    
  
The sight of the familiar door made her huff out a breath of relief. Once she was in, the spells of protection would save her from the outer presence. Nahab reached to unlock it, only to have the blade of a rusty knife fly inches away from her head and get stuck into the wood.  
  
“Don’t move, Momma.” The familiar mellow voice spoke behind her. “Your end will be quick.”  
  
“I am not your goddamn Momma.” Nahab growled though her gritted teeth as she carefully slid her hand in her pocket.   
  
The rain gutter of the house began tearing off its hangers and twisted downwards with horrible creaking. It broke into several pieces that managed to form a crude cage around the old woman. She turned around, very slowly, to meet the girl’s eyes.  
  
She appeared to be emitting her own light in the darkness, but that was just an illusion caused by her white dress and shawl and her blonde hair. All the girl needed was a pair of baby blue eyes and a friendly expression, which combined with her habit of levitating instead of walking would make her appear positively angelic. Instead, her face had an expression of absolute callousness, her dark eyes were surrounded by bruise-like shadows, and at least ten other blades hung in the air around her like a halo of rust and death.  
  
Still, it was a striking image none the less.  
  
“Momma, I can see you’re holding something.”  
  
Nahab felt the fragile vial with her fingertips before raising her arm to throw it as fast as she could.  
  
“I got you a present.” She almost squeaked at the last word.  
  
The vial hit the girl square on the middle of her forehead, breaking and splattering about a ladle-full of blood on her face and hair. Her nostrils flared as the all-too-familiar smell filled them and the girl’s broken mind began recalling bits and pieces of her previous life. Nahab almost felt bad for her – if only she had let the master use her as he had intended...  
  
The rain pipes fell on the pavement one by one. The old woman used wisely the couple of seconds the girl needed to go from a catatonic wreck back to a mass murderer – she quickly entered the house and locked the door twice, before running to her small windowless room, where her familiar waited.  
  
Or not. Turns out they had a visitor while she was in the music bar, and Brown Jenkins had had no other choice but to entertain their guest as well as it could.  
  
The man was tall and thin and dressed in the typical clothes of a paperboy, up to and including a newsy hat and a huge bag which was currently empty. However, his shiny slicked-back dark hair and well-groomed thin moustache did not match the look he was currently aiming for, nor did the expensive fabrics of which his clothing was made of.  
  
Brown Jenkins had somehow managed to make tea (which kind of resembled swap water) and had arrange several biscuits on a small plate for the guest. Now the human-faced rat was letting the man scratch it absent-mindedly on the back, squeaking happily every few seconds.  
  
The Crawling Chaos and messenger of the Outer Gods Nyarlathotep impatiently waved Nahab in and pointed at the nearest chair. When she commenced with the pleasantries, he interrupted her with his slightly resonating voice:  
  
“I would advise you not to do that again.” His nose twitched irritably – his  _entire_  nose. ”She has been very sensitive these days. Her mind has just begun the healing process.”  
  
The old woman nodded reverently.  
  
“As you wish, master.”   
  
“Of course. Not that I blame you for using the knowledge I impaired you with to save your life. “  
  
Nyarlathotep, or Noyes, as this particular avatar of his was called, handed Nahab a piece of paper that most certainly was not in his hand a second ago.  
  
“ _The Thaumaturgical Herald_? Isn’t this from the March issue, the one with the article about Ithaqua’s abnormally frequent recent sightings?”  
  
“Which reminds me, I would have to pay the Wind-Walker a visit soon. He’s being annoying, giving unwanted advice to animated corpses that wander in his hunting fields… Check the ads.”  
  
Nahab quickly scanned the page before her eyebrows shot upwards in surprise.  
  
“Are we talking about this so-called ‘fertility’ potion? Because if we are, I would advise you to try…”  
  
Nyarlathotep cleared his throat pointedly.  
  
“I meant the one with the apartments.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Brown Jenkins choked on the biscuit it was nibbling on. It sounded an awful lot like snickering.  
  
“Edward Derby? The name doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”  
  
“He has been known as Ephraim Waite before switching bodies with his daughter Asenath, and also as Kamog ever since he began dabbling in what you humans call magic.” Nyarlathotep leaned forward and so did Nahab. “I know for a fact that one apartment is still tenantless. You have to move in first thing in the morning. She would not dare attack you while you are close to the assassin.”  
  
The old woman chewed on a long fingernail for a second.  
  
“You’re sending me to live in the same house as an assassin – meaning someone who’s actually getting paid to kill – with apparently enough skill to make a ridiculously powerful telekinetic steer clear of the premises of the building?”  
  
“She ran into him once and I doubt she wants to repeat the experience. Also, besides the assassin and the wizard landlord, you will have the owner of the Silver Key nearby.” Nahab whistled. “I am very generous, I know. As long as you stay inside as much as possible and try not to get in the way of the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth, you will be fine.”  
  
“The Spawn lives there too? What a strange coincidence… almost too strange to be natural.”  
  
“I know!” Nyarlathotep threw his hands up in irritation. “This universe has been like a jigsaw puzzle ever since the runt was resurrected.”  
  
Nahab really hoped her master would elaborate on that, but he didn’t say anything else, instead choosing to have a biscuit.  
  
They drank the nasty tea in silence, until Nahab blinked and found that she and Brown Jenkins were the only two creatures in the room.  
  
***  
  
On the next day, Henry Armitage found a business card on his desk at work. He read it very carefully and chose not to dwell on the fact that ever since the incident with Whateley the library had been turned into something of an impregnable fortress.  
  
The card was printed on cheap white cardboard and on one side it read:  
  
 _Miss C. N. White  
Tormenters eliminated, oppressors obliterated, bothersome bullies removed.  
Negotiable prices. Discretion guaranteed.  
59 Aylesbury Street, floor 5, apartment 19_  
  
The back of the card contained a single sentence:  
  
 _Adam D. Frankenstein, antiquarian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaannnd we have a plot. Or something. 
> 
> I should've posted this like a week ago, but then I decided to rewrite the thing. And then real life got in the way.
> 
> This chapter introduces or at least hints at the presence of several non-Lovecraftian characters. One of them is Helen Vaughan, from Machen's 'The Great God Pan', who was actually Lovecraft's inspiration for Wilbur Whateley's story. You can probably guess that I ship them like whoa.
> 
> This fic needs more female characters, seriously.
> 
> I also managed to tangle Lovecraft's universe with Stephen King's. Ooops. 
> 
> Fun fact: the plot line about Carrie and Nyarlathotep comes from a very old comic of mine that was never posted on dA and, sadly, never finished.


	6. Cats And Mice

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 4: Cats And Mice**  
  
 **May 20. 15:04**  
  
The knock on his cabinet’s door was the last drop in Ephraim Waite’s already overflowing glass of things he didn’t want to have to deal with. Why was he letting all those (dimension-hopping, corpse-eating, sword-wielding, murder-happy, half-human, awake-at-all-hours, noisy) people live in his house again?   
  
Oh yes, they were paying him. Right.  
  
“What do you want?” he called, not even bothering to look up from his desk. He hadn’t left his office since after breakfast, and it was three in the afternoon already.  
  
Wilbur Whateley poked his head in, as if expecting to have something thrown at him. When he realized that Ephraim had buried all his paperweights under various books and documents, all of which were too important-looking to be used as blunt weapons, he crossed the room in two strides and carelessly perched himself on the nearest armchair.   
  
“Well aren’tcha a ray o’ sunshine?”  
  
Ephraim deigned to glance at his tenant’s general direction as he reached for the small metal flask he kept in his drawer, next to the gun.  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be, after I had to bribe the gardener to keep his mouth shut?”  
  
Wilbur snorted in amusement. It was a strange sound, which reminded the wizard of a conversation they had several weeks ago, something about him being far more alien on the inside, to balance out his humanoid appearance.  
  
“Did ‘e find Pickman’s leftovers?”  
  
The nerve of that ghoul. Ephraim filed away that snippet of information for later inspection.   
  
“No, he ran into Helen early this morning, while she was having her regular sulk in the linden tree, and she jumped at the chance to take her frustrations out on an innocent man. His screaming almost made me choke on a piece of toast. When I found him, his ears were bleeding and he was yammering about horns and claws, and green eyes. Anyway, I convinced him he had stepped on the rake and hit his head. Good thing your girl didn’t give a  _repeat performance_.”  
  
To Ephraim’s delight, Wilbur twitched his ears in annoyance. The first time the wizard saw him do that, he immediately likened him to a kid – that is to say, a baby goat. Needless to say, the nickname stuck.  
  
“Fer the last time, she’s not…”  
  
“What did you do to her this time? Did you go back on your promise to teach her Aklo and whatnot?”  
  
The Spawn of Yog-Sothoth squirmed in his seat. Ephraim smirked before taking a generous gulp from his flask. Ah, sweet gin, thou art a faithful friend.  
  
“Who tol’ ye ‘bout that??”  
  
Helen had gushed about their date to anyone willing to listen, which included… well, everyone. Except the newest tenant, an old lady who had signed her agreement form with the obviously false name Nahab de Salem. She preferred to spend as much time indoors as possible, which made Ephraim feel a bit nervous. He liked to know what his tenants were up to at all times.  
  
“Or did you act like your usual obnoxious self during the lesson, pulling her hair and kicking her under the table, so to speak?”  
  
“Hey, I behaved!”  
  
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”  
  
“I didn’t say one mean thing to ‘er! I actually  _wrote things down_  for ‘er!”  
  
Ephraim had to raise a skeptical eyebrow at that.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I drew a… a  _chart_ , with all the basic symbols an’ correspondences… an’ a list o’ key phrases in Aklo. No one ever drew a chart fer me when  _I_  was learnin’!”  
  
Suddenly, Helen’s tantrum made a lot more sense.  
  
“You mean to tell me… you two actually sat down and she listened to you rant about magical theory for several hours? And you were all attentive and bookish and…  _you_?”  
  
“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ye!” Wilbur exclaimed with relief and grinned, which only made Ephraim throw his hands in the air in exasperation.  
  
“No wonder she’s vexed!”  
  
Wilbur’s smile died like a blown candle, only to be replaced by an equally infuriating look of confusion.   
  
“I don’t follow.”   
  
The wizard took another sip from his bottle before tucking in away. If he kept drinking, he would soon find himself explaining to his old friend’s grandson what exactly he is supposed to do when in the company of an attractive woman who is clearly interested in him in a decidedly non-platonic way. And that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. Ever.    
  
“What do you want, kid? Five words or less.”  
  
The Spawn of Yog-Sothoth looked around the room, taking notice of the amulets for the umpteenth time. Then, without uttering a word, he began counting on the fingers of his right hand.  
  
Ephraim made a face at him.  
  
“You know, sometimes I look at you and I think, hey, he’s quite normal for someone whose daddy is locked out of our universe, and then you do something like this and I remember that yes, Noah Whateley was trusted to raise a child.”  
  
“Nahab de Salem must leave.”  
  
Ephraim’s first thought was ‘but she paid for two months in advance’. His second thought ran along the lines of ‘I fucking knew it’.  
  
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate on that. Didn’t you and your girl meet her during ‘The King In Yellow’?”  
  
“Met ‘er at the play, yes. Didn’t like ‘er for a second, though.”  
  
“But you both hated ‘The King’. Doesn’t that make you best friends or something?”  
  
“Nuada an’ I both dislike cuttin’ our hair; that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna rip ‘is off.” Wilbur leaned forwards and so did Ephraim. “Nahab reeks o’ Chaos. Y’know, the one that Crawls.”  
  
That made the wizard’s blood freeze in his veins.  
  
“Are you completely sure?”  
  
“My father’s gifted me with enough senses to know what’s really goin’ on ‘round me. I’m tellin’ ye, she’s sworn to Nyarlathotep. Signs like those can’t be faked.” Wilbur bit his upper lip. “Normally I wouldn’t care ‘bout ‘is pawns, but then again, they don’t usually follow me back home an’ don’t get to live across my… across Helen’s place.”  
  
Ephraim felt sick just thinking about that specific Outer God – the One with a Thousand Forms , the one who took special, personal, sadistic interest in the lives of the races that writhed beneath his feet, the most treacherous and malevolent of all entities mentioned in the Necronomicon.  
  
And now one of his servants was living in his house.   
  
“Nahab’s apartment’s cloaked with so many spells, Randolph’s been complainin’ of headache ever since she arrived. I’d’ve broken into it, but she’s always home. That doesn’t stop ‘er from tryin’ to spy on us, though.”  
  
***  
  
 **May 20. 15:10**  
  
Wilbur placed the yellow cookie jar on the kitchen table, amongst Khaa’r ‘s newspapers. Ephraim had noticed the absence of the Deep One and briefly wondered where the hell he could have gone in the middle of the afternoon. He was probably at Carter’s, trading tips on how best to infiltrate other worlds and have the locals at their beck and call.  
  
“Caught this li’l pest in the corridor. At first I though it was a mouse, but then I looked again...”  
  
The jar’s lid was opened to reveal something small, dark and furry, which scrambled to burry itself deeper in the cookie remains. Brown Jenkins gave a sharp squeak when Wilbur grasped it to drag in out.  
  
“Nahab’s familiar?” Ephraim guessed as he examined the curious creature – a rat with a long tail and a tiny human face. “A bit old-fashioned, but nevertheless. It’s nicely done.”   
  
It attempted to bite Wilbur, revealing its sharp white teeth. He simply squeezed harder, making the creature stiffen with pain.   
  
“I noticed somethin’ ‘ad touched my stuff, moved ‘em about. So I decided to stay in my room today and’rest...”  
  
Here the familiar managed to cheep:  
  
“I didn’t touch your belongings!”  
  
Wilbur smirked at Ephraim’s astonished expression, before concentrating on the small creature.  
  
“It’s pretty cute when it’s tryin’ to lie to yer face, no… ”   
  
“I’ve never… been here before today!... Nah-huh-hab! Nah-haab!”  
  
The rat was now gasping for breath, its tail twisting grotesquely and trying to wrap itself around its captor’s wrist.   
  
“Even as its life’s lit’rally in someone else’s hand… ”   
  
“Wrong d-door… “  
  
Wilbur considered that for a moment, before carelessly dropping the creature back in the cookie jar.  Then he placed the lid back on, but slightly off-center, so that fresh air would reach the furry prisoner.   
  
Ephraim rubbed his hand across his forehead. Today was shaping up to be pretty nasty.  
  
“I don’t condone needless violence, kid, but I’d have the same reaction if I caught this… thing snooping around my equipment.”  
  
“The old witch should’ve known better than to send the furball sniffin’ ‘round other people’s grimoires.”  
  
“And I explicitly told her that all tenants should respect each others’ privacy…”  
  
“Very disrespectful, when ye consider ‘ow she’s wrapped ‘erself up in a cocoon o’ protection spells.”  
  
“If she was that desperate for information, she could have invited someone over tea and asked them about… Oh, no, what if she talks to the girls? They live on the same floor as her.”  
  
“Nahab’s smarter than to try an’ lock horns with a daughter o’ Nodens.”  
  
Ephraim pulled up a chair and sat heavily. He thought of his cabinet, of the newest issue of  _The Thaumaturgical Herald_  waiting on the small table near the window, of the new recipe for spaghetti he decided to try out for dinner, of the pressing need to find another gardener. Unconsciously, he began chewing on his nails.   
  
Wilbur’s fingers drummed on the table for a couple of seconds, before he said something that pulled Ephraim out of his reverie.   
  
“While I was tryin’ not to snap the fuzzy li’l pest in half, it let slip somethin’ interestin’.” Here Wilbur closed the lid of the cookie jar completely.   
  
The wizard thought about it, then nodded. His worry evolved into full-fledged horror.  
  
“It mentioned a wrong door. “  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Nahab wants to get to Randolph.”  
  
***  
  
 **May 20. 15:16**  
  
Several loud knocks on the door made her look up from her reading.   
  
“You witch!” Ephraim Waite’s voice was shrill with hate. ”I’ll teach you how to sneak rats in my house!!”  
  
Nahab marked the page with one of her hairpins, then stood up and quickly got to her bag to pull out an odd-looking ink-pot from its depths. She opened it with great care, dipped two fingers in the crimson liquid and began drawing on the floor.  
  
“My tenants’ business is  _my_  business and my business only!!!”  
  
She heard the sound of chalk being dragged across the door. She dipped her fingers again, this time spattering drops of the mixture of blood and oils on her dress.  
  
***  
  
Outside, Ephraim was busy covering the entire door with the symbols of an ancient curse.  Wilbur, who had followed him downstairs, was leaning on the opposite wall, one of his feet placed securely on top of the cookie jar containing Brown Jenkins. Next to him, Helen Vaughan, also known to some as Mrs. Beaumont, observed the wizard with mild interest. Her long red hair was not folded into the usual elegant bun and now fell beautifully down her back.   
  
“I don’t recognize all the letters, but that thing he’s writing out looks unpleasant.”   
  
“I’ll ‘ave ye know, this whole situation is.”  
  
Ephraim finished the curse with a flourish, put the piece of chalk back in his pocket and spit in his fist. He muttered several words in Aklo that caused the air in the small corridor to become unnaturally lucid and odorless and he struck the door once, twice, three times, chanting louder and louder after each strike.  
  
At the same time, Nahab stepped into the two figures on the floor that somewhat resembled human footprints and uttered a short tongue-twister of her own.   
  
Wilbur and Helen cringed as they listened to the sounds of furniture being tossed around and toppled down behind the closed door. A series of shattering noises told them that the porcelain set that came with the apartment had met a grisly end.  The cacophony lasted about several minutes, before Ephraim finally removed his hand from the door. His face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat, which he quickly wiped with his sleeve before turning to his tenants.  
  
“Ma’am, you might want to go back inside.”  
  
Helen stared at him incredulously, then looked up at Wilbur.  
  
“I thought this magic of yours was focused on gaining immortality and knowledge and possibly an uncomfortably close relationship with an extra dimensional being, not on summoning storms inside the house.”  
  
Wilbur gave her a faint smile.  
  
“If we tol’ everyone ‘bout the hidden perks, they’d all wanna join the club.”  
  
“You are  _so_  teaching me that trick!”  
  
After Helen went back in, Wilbur pushed the cookie jar with his foot until it was positioned in front of Nahab’s door. Ephraim straightened his waistcoat and took a deep breath to calm his jangled nerves. He glared at the chalk symbols and snapped his fingers. The click was delightfully clear.  
  
The door swung open and Ephraim kicked the jar in, causing its lid to fall off. Brown Jenkins managed to crawl out of it dizzily, his fur bristling and covered in cookie crumbs. The creature shook them off and looked around pathetically.  
  
The wizard walked inside the apartment with the air of someone who actually owned the place and only tolerated other people’s presence because he was regularly paid to do so. The upturned furniture immediately stirred, like soldiers standing at attention: various cupboards set themselves up straight, paintings and bookshelves were reattached to the walls, tables and chairs gently floated to their previous places, unscathed books and knick-knacks filled the air for a moment before flying back in their proper spots, shards of glass and porcelain were quickly patched up, clinking and sparkling, until a sixteen-piece dinner set, four water glasses, a pitcher, six teacups with saucers and a matching kettle were put back together and immediately tucked away.  
  
Nahab calmly observed the entire operation from her position on the ceiling, where she sat, facing the floor, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Gravity seemed to have no effect on her dark skirts and long silver braid, which were pooled around her in careless elegance. She waved at Ephraim before descending slowly, her mouth set in a thin line. Brown Jenkins lunged at her and scurried up her dress until it was perched on her shoulder like an ugly neck-piece.    
  
Wilbur closed the door behind him and went to stand next to Ephraim. Two on one wasn’t fair, but fair was for suckers anyway. The wizard glanced quickly at the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth and then at the middle of the room, where a smear of dense red liquid could be seen drying off.  Wilbur thought he could make out the Aklo equivalents of several mathematical symbols, but nothing else.  
  
Ephraim’s voice was oddly chipper, for a person who had just wrecked a room apart. Then again, he had been long-due for some venting.  
  
“The people who live under my roof either have no home or are far away from it; however, they all know they are safe here.”  
  
Nahab held her familiar in her arms, much like one holds a baby. She proceeded to let it bite her pinky finger and suck the blood its tiny teeth drew.    
  
“That’s a nice picture you’re painting, Mr. Waite.”  She said, not bothering to look at the two. “Also hypocritical.”  
  
Ephraim felt offended. He tilted his head back and regarded the witch with obvious disdain.   
  
“Your rat was caught creeping on the second floor, where a certain Mr. Randolph Carter lives. You know who that man is. No doubt his escape is still a sore point for your master. After all, how many humans have managed to one up the Crawling Chaos?”  
  
“This is not about revenge, Mr. Waite. It’s simple research, nothing more.”  
  
Wilbur’s tail swished angrily as he stepped forward. Brown Jenkins squeaked and attempted to hide in Nahab’s sleeve.  
  
“Yer wastin’ yer time ef yer tryin’ to git the Silver Key.” He stated through gritted teeth. “It’s Carter’s, always has been, always will be.”  
  
The old woman’s shrug conveyed nothing but insulted innocence.  
  
“I only want to see how it works, that’s all.”  
  
“Tough luck, then. That’s somethin’ only the Beyond-One knows an’ understands.”  
  
Nahab nodded regally.  
  
“The Beyond-One.”    
  
“All-in-One. One-in-All. The Key and the Gate.  ‘Umr at-Tawil. Yog-Sothoth. The one who doesn’t need yer master’s messenger services.”  
  
“Have you ever called it father?”  
  
“Only when I need to impress somebody.”  
  
Ephraim was ready to take back everything he had ever said about Noah Whateley’s parenting skills. He had raised the kid right.   
  
“Ye may keep yer rat, but heed my warnin’: the second I hear it’s been spotted outta yer apartment, I’m drownin’ it in boilin’ water.”  
  
Yup, the kid was disturbed, there were no two opinions about it.  
  
Ephraim rubbed his temples to soothe the oncoming migraine. He could feel the curse taking its toll already.  He put a hand on Wilbur’s elbow and gently pulled, to indicate that they were about to leave, before turning to the witch.  
  
“I never expected to say this, but here it goes:  _this is a happy place_.”   
  
Nahab gave him a calculating look, before nodding again.  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“You are safe here, even if you’re among your own kind.”  
  
“Good to know.”  
  
“Also, I’m going to ask you to remove the spells you’ve cast on this place.”  
  
“Will do.”  
  
“And finally, the ceiling cling? Nice trick.”  
  
Nahab snickered.  
  
“Do not expect me to exchange notes with you, not after that hissy fit.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  
  
***  
  
 **May 20. 15:28**  
  
Nahab locked the door twice after they left and leaned on it – the levitation spell had always been a challenging feat, even in her youth.    
  
Less than week, she thought bitterly, and I almost got maimed by a flying chair.   
  
She had no other choice but to burn the small rolls of parchment she had placed in every corner of the apartment. They had done a marvelous job to hide her from Carrietta’s searching mind, weakening her already exhausted body; but the formulas written on them with rare inks were useless against the magic of the Great Old Ones, which was capable of reshaping both the physical and the non-physical reality.  
  
So much for getting a glimpse of the mythical Silver Key in action, and learning anything about Yog-Sothoth’s summoning ritual was completely out of the question. Nahab felt disheartened – there was so much she wanted to know, to study, to learn. After all, she hadn’t mastered time-travel for laughs. She hadn’t signed her name in the Black Book of Azathoth because she didn’t have anything better to do that day. Alas, her past journeys did nothing to satiate her intellectual famine.  
  
Meanwhile, Brown Jenkins brought a cleaning rag from the kitchen and started fussing over the puddle of blood and oil on the floor. This rather comical sight made the old witch think of what the familiar had shared with her earlier today as it drank her blood…  
  
***  
  
 **May 20. 14:53**  
  
The dagger had nearly beheaded Brown Jenkins. It stuck in the thick carpeting with a barely audible thud; the familiar saw its own face reflected in the shiny blade for a second, before a large hand muffled its frightened squeak.   
  
Khaa’r dangled the small creature by its tail to examine it from all sides. His gills and fins twitched in harmony. From this close, Brown Jenkins was able to discern every crease on the Deep One’s flaky skin and every faded battle scar. The stench of fish, so typical for their kind, was lessened by some sort of ointment that also made him appear almost glossy, like a dolphin fresh out of the water.   
  
If Brown Jenkins had known better, it would have noticed that Khaa’r was wearing very light leather armor, reddish-brown in color, several details of which were made from a strange dull metal. At least five types of daggers could be seen on his waist and thighs, as well as a long coil of thin black rope and something that resembled a large crossbow.  
  
Khaa’r ember eyes blinked once, though they were never truly closed because of the transparent eyelids. Then, without saying a single word, he took Brown Jenkins’ right hind leg between his thumb and index finger and twisted it. The snapping of the tiny bone could be clearly heard in the dead silence of the corridor.   
  
When the familiar’s whimpers subsided, Khaa’r soundlessly entered his and Wilbur’s apartment and dropped the struggling creature near his roommate’s working corner, on the tallest pile of books, but not before taking several folders from the bookshelf and scattering their contents. Then he went out on the small balcony and quickly climbed up on the roof with the help of two very specific daggers from his set.   
  
The pile of books shook and toppled down under Brown Jenkins’ insignificant weight. The creature gave a pained yelp as it landed on its broken limb.  
  
“Khaa’r, that ye?”  
  
Wilbur appeared from his bedroom seconds later, worry and annoyance written all over his face. Brown Jenkins crawled from under a very heavy tome, its nails shredding a rather elaborate hand-drawn star map of the northern hemisphere.  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment.   
  
Brown Jenkins squeaked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I'm probably supposed to write some warning about animal abuse, but then I remember this is Brown Jenkins I'm talking about, the little freak that kills babies. :P


	7. A World like a Rubik’s Cube

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors**

**Chapter 5: A World Like A Rubik’s Cube**

**May 20, 1934. 15:02**

The old man stood in front of the small antique shop, peering in through the window not unlike a curious boy. His dog, a rather frightening-looking Rottweiler, gave him a gentle nudge on the thigh. Henry Armitage absent-mindedly patted it on the head before standing on his toes to get a better look inside.

“In a moment, Gytrash.”

The shop’s front consisted of a narrow door in need to repainting and a window display, where a number of snuff boxes, a massive pocket watch and two extravagant candelabras were symmetrically arranged in a half-circle. The place appeared to be empty, as far as Armitage could see through the low-quality glass, though the hand-written sign in the window’s lower right corner read ‘OPEN’.

Right next to the shop was another door with a small plaque bolted on it that declared that this was indeed number 59.

Armitage’s mouth frowned in distaste; he had a bad feeling about this whole expedition. For one thing, it was far too strange, even for him.

He decided against showing the mind-boggling card to the trio of ‘apprentices’ he had taken under his wing – the youngsters had other things to focus on, like passing their exams, planning their summer vacation and copying certain rituals from the Necronomicon for personal use. Armitage was rather impressed by how stoically they had accepted Wilbur Whateley’s return from the dead, even if their calmness stemmed from not being capable of assessing the severity of the situation.

There were moments, which easily stretched into hours during the night as stars shone coldly above his head, when Armitage regretted plunging right back into the proverbial fray, but he would immediately remember the heady rush of power he had felt in that nightmarish moment on top of Sentinel Hill in Dunwich, and how clean and untainted sunlight had seemed after the eldritch presence was finally gone. That moment of control stood out among all the other horrors he had witnessed, like a lighthouse on a raging sea.

Henry Armitage pulled out the card from his pocket and reread for the hundredth time the name and address.

 _Miss Carrietta N. White_  
_Tormenters eliminated, oppressors obliterated, bothersome bullies removed._  
 _Negotiable prices. Discretion guaranteed._  
 _59 Aylesbury Street, floor 5, apartment 19_

This was the street, this was the place, and there was a good reason the card mentioned an antiquarian on its back, a Mr. Adam D. Frankenstein.

“We’ll try the shop first.” Armitage murmured. “It’s three o’clock, far too early for home visitation.”

He reached for the handle when the door swung open by itself. Gytrash gave a startled yelp. A mellow voice called from inside the store:

“If you’re done sorting out your thoughts and talking to your dog, feel free to enter. Wipe your shoes first.”

***

“My friend went out late last night and still hasn’t come back; we are going to have our talk here, since I’m in charge of the store now.” The girl proclaimed from her place in front of a very well-preserved Singer sewing machine, where something resembling a white shirt waited to be completed.

Armitage was offered a comfortable velvet stool that was dragged out from underneath a worn-out coffee table by the same invisible force that had opened and then closed the door for him and the dog. Gytrash sniffed the stool curiously before squatting next to it.

The shop appeared much more pleasant once you were in. It was bursting with variety - cutlery, plates, bowls and trays in all shapes and sizes, paper fans and jewelry boxes, statuettes from stone and metal, clocks and watches, porcelain dolls and tin soldiers, framed paintings and photographs, greeting cards for all occasions, inkpots, vases, and books, so many books. The librarian felt the strong urge to browse the selection, but now was not the time.

He immediately noticed that the sewing machine was placed behind a beautifully decorated folding screen that prevented the person using it from being spotted through the window. That was the reason the shop had appeared to be empty at first.

“Miss White, I suppose?” Armitage sat carefully on the stool, like any plump man would on a piece of furniture older than himself, while pretending to be in awe of the clutter that surrounded him.

“That would be me.” The girl nodded. Her face did not match her voice at all – it was like hearing a crab chirp like a nightingale. It was odd, since she was rather attractive, albeit in a sullen way.

Her dress was a pale blue color and obviously custom sawn, decorated beautifully with white silk roses on the neckline. Her dark blond hair was tied in a very long ponytail that reached past her waist. Instead of cheery and youthful, the whole ensemble emitted solemnity.

There was an almost healed puncture wound on her right cheek.  

“I found this card on my desk a couple of days ago.”  
Miss White made a beckoning motion with her left hand and the card was pulled out of Armitage’s grip, only placed back in his breast pocket when she pointed downwards.

“Keep it, sir. You might need it at some point. I have been inhabiting this world for a year and a half now; the monsters are slowly but surely learning to fear my retribution.”

“It says here on your card that you’re an assassin.”

“The word assassin implies that I’m willing to kill just about anyone, as long as I get paid.”

“I take it that you have standards.” Armitage pronounced the last word with the same purpose as a man casting a fishing pole.

“Correct.” Miss White had the decency to examine her shoes instead of meeting the librarian’s gaze.

“How did you find me anyway?”

“Every day, I walk through a different part of Arkham, looking for… a certain someone.” Here the girl’s wounded cheek twitched grotesquely. “Instead, I find others – hurt, scared, helpless people. Victims, just like me. Their suffering torments me more than I’d like to admit. I start remembering all kinds of things.” Miss White fell silent for a moment before continuing. “Last week, I clearly sensed your distress. You were terrified. I can’t let anyone feel so much fear. Not when I can do something to help.”

Armitage looked at the girl for a long while, before his inner mentor took hold of his mouth.

“I am going to ask you a couple of questions, Miss White. But first of all, let me clear something up – there is only one proper reaction to fear, and that is to stare it down, no matter how many times it returns to haunt you.”

“I am going to keep that in mind.”

“Where are you from, anyway? I am only asking because we’ve had a lot of visitors lately.”

“Visitors?”

“Outer ones – alien races, eldritch deities, various creatures coming back from the dead, people suddenly reappearing after being gone for years... and in your and Mr. Frankenstein’s cases, characters coming to life from the pages of a book.”  
Armitage handed her two small books, one hardcover and the other paperback, both of which fit well in his coat’s inner pocket. Miss White physically reached out to take both books, one in each hand. Her eyes grew unnaturally large as she read their titles, giving her an almost child-like appearance.

“ _Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus_ , by Mary Shelley.” She gasped. “I _knew_ his name sounds familiar; there’s probably a book like this one in my world, or was it a film…”

Armitage’s heart sank as he watched her face grow deathly pale. He caught the hardcover as it fell off her fingers.

After several minutes of stunned silence, she finally managed to rasp out:

“ _Carrie_ , by Stephen King.” She opened it to read the title page. “Published April 5, 1974.”

The girl’s hands began shaking as she slowly leafed through the pages. It was obvious that she was not actually reading – she already knew the contents of the book like the back of her hand, and only morbid curiosity drove her to relive the last months of her nightmarish life. A ridiculous thought flashed through Armitage’s mind - _I hope I didn’t break her._

After ten minutes or so, she finished her story and closed the book with great care. Her face had slowly shifted back to its initial gloomy expression.

“You die in the end.” Armitage said off-handedly, to which she responded with a noncommittal shrug.

“Yes, I did. I died in 1979.”

“I need to apologize.”

“What for?”

The old man and the young girl raised their eyebrows at each other. Miss White snorted in amusement.

“You just cleared up a lot of things for me… and for Adam, I guess. We are going to have a lot of fun this week, reading our books over and over again.”

“I intruded on your privacy, Miss. I read the books long ago, but trust me, had I known…”

She interrupted him with a soft smile:

“Books are meant to be read. Let’s leave it at that.”

***

It was the most curious afternoon Armitage had experienced in a while.

Gytrash had accepted his first bribe ever – a cracker; currently the dog’s head was placed in Carrietta White’s lap, where it was regularly scratched between the ears and cooed at.

Also, tea prepared and served itself, along with sugar and cookies. Miss White preferred to let her teacup hover in the air next to her right shoulder; meanwhile, Armitage got the coffee table all to himself and his elbows.

The girl mentioned in passing that she had been resurrected while still in her grave, and that she had accidentally intruded on _the Court_ , whatever that meant; when Armitage asked her to elaborate, she pretended not to hear him, choosing to stare blankly into space until she snapped back to reality. It was extremely unnerving.

Miss White was far more passionate when talking about her life in Arkham, though.

“Here I can start anew; there’s nothing to remind me of what was before. I can wear whatever clothes and colors I want. Every item I own is an item I like. When I am at home, I feel safe. When I walk on the street, I hold my head high.” The girl’s face remained impassive, but her voice trembled with barely restrained joy. “I am no longer tormented and punished. Instead, I feel cleaner and happier with each passing day.”

Armitage felt sorry for having to crash the tea party, but he had a lot of questions regarding Miss White and very little time – his wife had invited her relatives for dinner and he had promised to help with the cooking.

He coughed.

“Even when you kill people?”

“Even when I kill monsters.” The girl made a grimace before spitting out, “I have been told that I am very talented. I use those talents accordingly.”

The librarian waited for an explanation, but none followed. It was his turn, then.

“Telekinesis, yes, I can see that, and perhaps some sort of telepathy…” Armitage raked his brain to find the right definitions.

“I can move over twenty objects simultaneously; I prefer knives, of course. But I can also  
flip over an entire train.” Suddenly, Carrietta White was standing – _looming_ \- above him. “I can enter the thoughts of hundreds of people at the same time. I’ve been doing it every day, for fifteen months.” Her feet were several inches off the ground. She was levitating. “You can’t even begin to imagine how good I’ve become at what I’m doing.”

Aha. The picture became a lot clearer.

“So this is how you find your clients – you take a long walk and try to read as many minds as you can.”

Miss White gracefully settled back on her chair before answering.

“It’s kind of like going to an art gallery – I only get a general idea for each person; trust me, it’s more than enough. Entering a specific person’s mind, however, is more like… visiting a library, I guess. Everything is laid out in front of you, but you still have to do some reading.”

“Do you enjoy art galleries, Miss?”

“Very much!” She nodded enthusiastically. “I killed two awful people that I wouldn’t have met otherwise, since they were only visiting Arkham for the exhibit.”

“That is… uh… “

“You don’t have to pretend to like my methods, sir. I _know_ I violate the privacy of countless people on a daily basis. Most of them have nothing to hide, just like me.”

“How many… monsters have you disposed of, exactly?” Armitage ignored the stab. He knew he wasn’t completely forgiven for reading Carrietta White’s book.

“Let me think…” The girl closed her eyes for a second. “Two of them were murderers, and another seven belonged to a cult I despise – you might remember that mass murder near Chesuncook Village in Maine...”

“That was their work?”

“No, it was mine.”

Armitage dropped his cookie. He had investigated the cultists’ deaths personally out of fear that whatever had ripped them to pieces was still around and needed to be exorcised.

“The papers speculated a bear attack!”

“I was having a rough day.” Miss White sipped her tea and resumed her counting. “There were three who beat their wives and children – good riddance. Then there was this rapist – I made him scream till his throat bled, for what I saw in his mind... Fifty-nine smugglers, thieves and bootleggers – awful, violent people… “

“So there wasn’t a gang war going on in February.” Armitage’s surprise turned into horror. One of the killed was his second cousin’s grandson. “It was only you.”

“Only me.”

“And… you’re offering your services… at what price?”

“I don’t really care for money, Mr. Armitage. My friend and I were very well-provided for before coming to the States.”

Armitage drank his cup’s content in one gulp, which was instantly refilled by the flying teapot. He signaled the sugar-tongs for three lumps. Miss White fed a second cracker to Gytrash.

“You’re obviously very excited about your work.”

“It’s more of a hobby, just like sewing. My work is something else entirely.”

“Meaning?”

Miss White gave him a suspicious look that said ‘what’s with all the questions’. Armitage ignored it.

“I already told you - ever since my arrival, I have been tracking a certain person. I finally caught her last week, in a bar near the university. That’s when I felt your presence. You have a very sharp mind.”

“Uh, thank you, I guess…”

“It’s annoying, really – minds like yours leave quite an impression; sometimes I remain connected to them for a couple of hours after the scan is over, which makes my headache worse.” That explained the constantly strained expression on her face – she was in pain. “I… lost my target’s trail, but I sensed your distress. I ran back to the bar and did a double take. That’s when I noticed that _thing_ you are afraid of.”

“You mean Whateley? Didn’t his mind stick out like a sore thumb?”

“On the contrary. He has a… a front of some sorts, very human-like and easy to ignore, but beyond it… “ Miss White shuddered. “Madness. Just like the _Court_.”

Her eyes glazed over for a moment, but she seemed to ward off the oncoming trance.

Armitage hurriedly drove her attention away from the memory.

“Hiding and pretending is like a second nature to his kind.”

“What is he, anyway?”  

Armitage sighed and proceeded to tell her about Wilbur Whateley, Yog-Sothoth and the Dunwich Horror; about the Great Old Ones and their many servants; about the Outer Gods and how far beyond human comprehension they were.

He also told her that a year and four months ago, strange things began happening all over the world…

***

_On February 2, 1933, at around ten in the morning according to Henry Armitage’s wrist watch, several earthquakes occurred at different locations all over the world – Northeastern America and Greenland, Australia and Polynesia, Southern England and France, parts of the Himalayas and the Andes. The earthquakes themselves were very light, doing little to no damage; however, they affected vast territories and lasted several hours, causing wide-spread panic. The seismologists’ confusion did not help the matters – for one thing, they couldn’t agree on where exactly the epicenter of each earthquake was located, or what had caused them. Either way, the tremors ceased almost simultaneously in the late afternoon._

_Armitage spent the entire day glued to the radio in his office, taking notes and subsiding entirely on some coffee and a couple of sandwiches._

_On the next morning, he eagerly opened the newspaper, hoping to find the mystery surrounding the earthquakes solved and explained. Instead, the front page was devoted to Daniel Upton’s suicide._

_Several citizens had seen the architect going to the cemetery during the tremors, dressed in full mourning garb, where he spent several hours searching for his friend’s funeral. The warden, a solid man in his fifties, carefully explained to him that nobody named Edward Derby had been or was going to be buried anytime soon, to which Upton had replied that of course Derby was going to be buried since he, Upton, had personally shot six bullets into his head several days ago._

_Upton had left the cemetery quickly after that, and headed for Arkham Sanitarium, where he again asked for Edward Derby’s death. The confused doctor simply showed him the forms – Derby had left the hospital early in the morning, having regained his mental health. Upton had then reached to show his empty revolver to the doctor as some sort of proof – only to find it fully loaded._

_Daniel Upton had shot himself in the middle of the reception hall of the sanitarium, leaving behind a distraught wife and a twenty-three year old son. His suicide was attributed to the earthquake having negative effects on his mentality._

_Armitage immediately checked the newspapers from the previous week – because the well-known poet’s murder at the hands of his best friend had been the talk of all Arkham, and because he did not dare ask anyone whether they remembered the… **original version**. Instead of numerous obituaries, he found the usual community announcements, economical news and political gossip. There was not a single sentence pertaining to Edward Derby’s murder, and nobody perceived Upton’s ‘incident’ as anything else but a horrible tragedy._

_Either both Armitage and the architect had gone mad, or something was afoot._

_The librarian turned his attention to the other part of the mystery – Edward Derby himself. Slowly and with the help of his friend and colleague Albert Wilmarth, he uncovered the poet’s connections with certain unsavory individuals, which included his marriage (ending with separation) to Asenath Waite, the only daughter of the notorious wizard Ephraim Waite. However, after Upton’s suicide, Derby turned into a recluse on his own volition, making it almost impossible for anyone to get it touch with him. Thus, Armitage’s investigation was halted, and no further progress was made._

_While researching Derby’s previous affiliations, however, Armitage noticed heightened activity of various sects and cults – rumors of monstrous rituals cropped up far more often than before, eventually culminating in the discovered remains of a gruesome human sacrifice that shocked the country. Armitage eventually signed up for **The Thaumaturgical Herald** in order to keep an eye on the occult scene in Massachusetts. What he learned through the monthly rag was very disquieting – the Esoteric Order of Dagon had resurfaced several years after the government’s raids in Innsmouth, despite having their entire collection of tomes of eldritch lore confiscated (and locked away safely in the Library of Miskatonic University); the speculations surrounding the mass murder of the seven leaders of the Chesuncook Witch Coven; a series of thefts from several solitary practitioners, who confessed to having salvaged the stolen books from the abandoned Church of Starry Wisdom. Eventually, Armitage found himself in possession of the last twelve issues of **The Thaumaturgical Herald** (with the exception of the one from March 1934, which was never delivered to him)._

_Several months after the earthquakes, his colleague Francis Morgan informed him that a rather notorious medic named Herbert West had reappeared after being gone for twelve years and had immediately landed a job in Arkham’s morgue. The reason for Morgan’s alarm was West’s well-known and almost maniacal belief that human life was nothing but a complicated chemical process and as such could be fully controlled and even restarted after the death of the body, which had resulted in him being banned from the university’s dissection laboratory. The librarian thought nothing of it at the time._

_A couple of months ago, Armitage had to check something in the library catalogue, where to his eternal surprise he found **Frankenstein** and **Carrie** , along with several issues of the London evening newspaper **The Star** , dating from the past century that featured a series of articles concerning the inexplicable suicides of several gentlemen, the last edition containing nothing unusual but a brief note about the sudden disappearance of a Mrs. Helen Beaumont. He could not recall accepting any of those items, nor writing them down in the catalogue and putting them away in the vault where the occult books were kept._

_It was at that point when the image of a universe (or two, or three) being broken to pieces and rearranged, like a puzzle in the hands of a toddler, appeared in his mind. He imagined the pieces being deformed and reshaped, under the guidance of a cruel mind, until they fit perfectly together._

***

Miss White listened carefully to the old man, nodding at the right places and on several instances asking him to explain further. Armitage ended his story with the premiere of the edited ‘The King In Yellow’ and his run-in with Wilbur Whateley and the mysterious Helen Beaumont.

“And at that moment, I knew that my theory was correct. The universe has been changed, time and space have been torn apart and sewn back together, and only those of us who are capable of recognizing the touch of Yog-Sothoth realize what has happened.”

The girl stood up to prepare more tea on the electric hot plate she had set up on the shop counter. Gytrash stretched and yawned, before returning to Armitage’s side for some long-due head-scratching.

“Did you expect Whateley to come back, even after witnessing his death?” Miss White inquired as she waited for the water to boil.

Armitage’s answer was preceded by a shallow sigh.

“At this point, I feel I can expect anything, and not be terribly disappointed.”

“You failed to track him down, right?”

“I couldn’t risk my students’ lives. Nor their sanity, now that there’s so little left of it in the world.”

“Well here, have some good news for a change – I know where he lives.” She served the tea and put more crackers on the table before continuing. “I followed the creature and his companion – she’s like quicksilver, do you know that? Constantly shifting; for a moment I felt like I was trying to read the minds of several different animals at once… Anyway, they live on High Street, in this building called Crowninshield, I think… “

“Impossible. That’s Edward Derby’s residence.”

“… and I can’t imagine a more miscellaneous bunch of characters. I didn’t find a single _normal_ human being there! I sensed a… a cannibal of some sorts, and a king, I could see crown marks on his mind, and there was this one whose mind was in the wrong body – extremely weird, I can’t even put it into words… Not to mention the biggest surprise – Adam’s main project. I mean, I knew the man had moved out of his previous residence, but that sort of coincidence borders on ridiculous…”  
Armitage raised his hand to stop Miss White’s chattering.

“That’s… quite enough, I think.”

The girl coughed in her fist.

“I rambled again, didn’t I?”

Armitage dared to smile at her.

“From what I’ve learned, you have a lot to catch up with, not just your rambling quota.”

Miss White began playing with several sugar cubes, making them chase each other in the air.

“So, what do you think?” she asked off-handedly. “You know of my abilities and methods, I know where your enemy lives. I think I’m fully capable of killing him, and as for the payment…”

“No.”

The sugar cubes froze in the air. Miss White blinked slowly at the librarian.

“No killing, unless we have no other choice.”

“What then?”

“Research.”

“You mean, dissection?”

“Nonono, of course not.”

Armitage shifted on the stool – he was getting uncomfortable after spending an hour or so in the same position.

“The strange series of earthquakes happened on February 2 – Wilbur Whateley’s birthday. I am willing to bet everything I own that his resurrection is what tipped off the entire chain of events, and that he intends to finish the labor he was born for.”

“Bringing about the Apocalypse, right?”

“Or something far worse. Currently, Whateley is our best trail – if we know what he is doing and how and why, we might be able to prevent any more harm to befall our world.”

Miss White chewed on her bottom lip as the sugar cubes resumed their dance. Her injured cheek twitched again.

“You want me to stalk him.”

“If you insist on using such crude language, then yes, I want you to stalk him and anyone who appears to be helping him.”

“I don’t normally do long-term jobs, Mr. Armitage.”

“Long-term?! We are talking about the safety of humankind!”

“Which is precisely why I’m willing to help.”

***

**May 20, 1934. 15:24**

Khaa’r had managed to travel from Ephraim Waite’s house to the library’s grounds, moving and jumping like an overgrown mutant cat from roof to roof. His movements were extraordinarily limber for someone born and grown in the ocean depths; then again, he had spent centuries honing his skills in the ancient continent Hyperborea, in the shadowy slopes of Mount Voormithadreth, his only company being his savage cousins and brutal teachers.

Normally, Khaa’r preferred to move about the city during the impenetrable darkness of the small hours; now the hustle and bustle of Arkham swallowed whatever noise he made. The Deep One was immensely grateful that humans only took notice of what was directly in front of them, much like cattle focused on the grass at their feet.

He had a great deal of respect for Wilbur Whateley and his methods, even if he suspected him of knowing the true reason for Khaa’r’s tolerance of his quirky ways. The Deep One would have been severely disappointed if his friend and roommate had actually been fooled. After all, R’lyeah would never let one of their best warriors dawdle for almost a year in a hostile land if he was not on some kind of a mission in the meantime.

At first, Khaa’r’s mission had been a resounding failure. The Spawn of Yog-Sothoth had the habit of leaving his books and notes all over their apartment, not caring whether anyone read or stole them – because he used various ciphers with practiced ease, and while Khaa’r enjoyed puzzles as much as the next guy, he sometimes entertained the thought of strangling Wilbur until he promised to write in Latin like a proper wizard. The unbreakable codes did not stop the Deep One from regularly going through his roommate’s things and trying to guess just what, in the name of Mother Hydra, all the calculations were about. He also kept track on the number of times Wilbur had summoned his father, as well as the date and hour and whether the ritual had caused a small earthquake.

If Wilbur had not let slip that Henry Armitage, the university’s head librarian, had probably collected all his belonging from Dunwich for research, Khaa’r would have still been on square one.

The librarian, unlike Wilbur, kept everything under lock and key. His magic was bland, lacking both the flourish of Ephraim Waite’s and the insolence of Wilbur’s, but it was effective nonetheless. Because of the man’s efforts, the library of Miskatonic University was astonishingly well-protected, all things considered. Each and every entrance had the Elder Sign carved above, below and upon it – both a warning and a trap. Powerful rituals for luck and protection were performed on a monthly basis in accordance to the phase on the Moon and the positions of the planets. Also, the human always made sure to lock everything that could possibly be locked – doors, windows, cabinets and drawers. And there was the vicious guard dog, which Wilbur would have poisoned months ago, if only he hadn’t been so terrified of nearing the building’s wrought-iron fence.

Unfortunately, the librarian possessed a severely crippled imagination. He had not done anything to block the chimneys.

Khaa’r found the spot from where he could cross safely onto the library’s roof – the distance was about sixty feet across the busy street and the neatly trimmed lawn, and there were trees growing in his chosen path that were tall and lush and would hide him from the passersby below.

Khaa’r aimed his crossbow at the base of the library’s chimney and pressed the trigger. The arrow easily pierced the bricks and came out of the other side, a long line of transparent rope trailing after it. The arrow’s tip then spread open and turned into a climbing hook. The Deep One pulled at his end of the rope until it was tightly stretched and proceeded to tie it to one of the chimneys on the rooftop he was currently standing on.

Then Khaa’r swiftly ran across the rope, aided by his firm belief that losing balance was something that only happened to other people.

Once on the library’s roof, he unwound the coil of black rope from his belt and tied it around the widest chimney – the one that lead directly into the unused fireplace in the head librarian’s office.

The first time Khaa'r broke and entered, the Deep One had used one of basement windows, only to discover that the door had a padlock on the outside. After kicking that obstacle down, he had quickly put it back in its hinges and continued to sketch out a plan of the library in his notepad. That had lead him to discover the head-librarian’s office, whose he easily picked. Khaa’r had smirked when he saw the enormous fireplace, his smile turning into a full-blown grin when he located the safe behind one of the oil paintings.

Cracking it took quite some time, but its contents were more than the Deep One had bargained for – a voluminous, almost hand-made book, filled out with the familiar handwriting of his roommate, a list explaining the cipher it was written in, and a readily translated version. Khaa’r had read as much as he could and copied the cipher in his notepad. Then, just before dawn, he had left through the chimney, making sure to mark it with the blade of his dagger.  

Khaa’r began visiting the library on an almost nightly basis, and even took time to spend a couple of hours hanging upside down in the chimney during the day, eavesdropping on the head librarian’s conversations.

Today, he found the office empty and in complete disarray.

There were several occult books stacked on the desk, some of their pages bookmarked with torn pieces of paper; the maps of several continents were spread on the table and drawn on with red ink; star charts and tables of formulas were hanging on every wall.

Khaa’r acquaintanced himself with the librarian’s work, briefly wondering if he really had the patience to put his office in order every evening, only to throw it back into a state of chaos on the following day. He noticed that a lot of attention was being devoted to the date February 2 1933.

He then noticed that the formulas and the charts were written in pencil. Wilbur, being his usual arrogant self, always used ink.

Khaa’r had always cared more for the prosperity of his race than the pleasure of the Great Old Ones, but he recognized a sign when he saw it. He jammed some paper in the keyhole of the door to keep it locked white he was inside the offive, then found a pencil and an eraser and continued to make several adjustments, changing signs and numbers and redrawing angles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SIX DAYS! THAT'S HOW LONG THIS STUPID CHATER TOOK ME!! SIX DAYS!!! 
> 
> Phew! It feels good to casplock the anger outta your system...
> 
> There are only three characters in this chapter and very little humor, but we have a whole lot of plot exposition. Carrie White proves to be very hard to write, Armitage is surprisingly clever, the dog that killed Wilbur Whateley gets a name, and Khaa'r... well, go see for yourselves.


	8. Interlude 2: Banishment

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors**

**Interlude 2: Banishment**

The universe trembled when Azathoth twitched in his sleep.

For the briefest of moments, anything was possible.

Yog-Sothoth observed the commotion from the void between the universes, secure in its isolation. It reached…

… so many possibilities, so many chances…

… it was but a mirror image of countless worlds and dimensions, and like all mirrors that were threatening to break, it trembled and shimmered…

… and it was suddenly both in and out.

Closed door, open window.

Yog-Sothoth looked at the disturbed universe that lay unguarded before his sight.

And it thought:

**Things are going to change around here.**

***

Ithaqua felt the tremors and briefly wondered whether the end of all existence was drawing nigh. He carefully chewed and swallowed the last piece of the walrus he had caught earlier – he was almost certain that this was a false alarm, just like the last time.

For the time being, he inhabited one of the glacier caves in the northeastern part of Greenland. The ceiling was lower than the Wind-Walker would have preferred, but the ice surrounding him beautifully resembled sea foam in both color and shape. Here he kept some of his (admittedly few) possessions – mostly gold and precious stones that had been left as a tribute from unwise priests (instead of live victims for him to ravish and/or kill), along with the remains of his last meal of human flesh.

Ithaqua eventually got up from his comfortable corner and poked his head out of the icy cave to inspect the equally frozen world outside - just in time to see the falling star land several miles away from where he stood. 

***

The Wind-Walker was a fast flier, and quick to act when something piqued his curiosity.

However, instead of the small crater he expected, he was greeted by an odd sight – a tiny female human was laying in snow, curled up into a protective ball. She was small even by human standards and obviously malnourished, with very long yellow hair and pale skin.

Ithaqua kneeled to get a better look at her. The human was unconscious, but her breathing was steady and unlabored. She muttered occasionally, random words and parts of sentences - _Momma, kill, his fingers, you’re lying, red, no, let me die, mask, Azathoth, noisy_. Ithaqua reached to touch the human’s naked back with a single long claw, mindful of her fragile physique, and felt the essence of the Crawling Chaos clinging stubbornly to her – his marks were everywhere, like footprints on freshly fallen snow.

Ithaqua sniffed the human’s hair, ignoring the long tresses that tickled his nostrils, and nodded to himself. The tiny creature was irreparably insane. He could practically smell her brain malfunctioning underneath the skull. 

He had known many human women during his life on Earth – all of them had been strong and healthy, brimming with energy and promises of a brilliant new life, only to die in his hands. Ithaqua could not help but compare them with this skinny, broken wisp of a girl that had somehow managed to escape the Crawling Chaos’ clutches. _Such an oddity_ , Ithaqua thought.

Then he did something he was not used to doing - he picked her up as gently as he was capable of, cradling her in his palm like a child holding a wounded sparrow. He then let his breath wash over the small body, softly whispering a blessing and thus steeling the human against the arctic cold.

***

The human woke up on the third day after the landing. In the meantime, Ithaqua had kept her in the furry depths of his collarbone, occasionally petting her over the polar bear skin he had covered her with. 

“Are you feeling well, little one?” he asked as gently as he could, after placing the tiny human on one of the few dry rocks in his cave.

Ithaqua noted the calm and collected manner in which she surveyed firstly him (her eyes lingered on his claws), then her surroundings (she quickly spotted the exit) and finally herself. Finally she murmured a response in the same deceptively soft tone he had used:

“Who the hell are you?” 

Ithaqua contorted his features into what he hoped could pass for a friendly smile. Internally, he was baffled by her unyielding composure. No screams, no pleas of mercy, no attempts to escape… He discreetly inspected his claws – yes, still sharp.

“I have been addressed by many names.”

She blinked sleepily at his giant face, unperturbed by the width of his jaws.  
“Which one of them should I use?”

“Ithaqua is what my worshippers call me. I am also partial to the name Wind-Walker.”

The human frowned a bit, but her scowl was not directed at him personally.

“Wind-Walker sounds nice.” She pursed her lips for a moment. “My name is Carrie. So… if you have worshipers, does that mean you are a... a god?”

Ithaqua nodded. 

“Like many others, I have been and still am considered a deity by some of the mortal races that live and die on this planet.”

His answer earned him a (rather undeserved, in his opinion) glare. Her dark, angry eyes were eerily similar to those of Gnoph-Keh, the progenitor of Ithaqua’s ancient bear-like servants of the same name.

“A deity? Does that mean you’re all-powerful?” her question sounded like a dare.

“No.” Ithaqua confessed. “There is no such thing as an all-powerful god, despite what some would like to believe.”

She mulled over this for a while. 

“Do these… worshippers pray to you?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“Not to harm them.”

“And do you answer these prayers?”

“As long as I am offered proper sacrifices.”

This seemed to bring Carrie some sort of almost esoteric peace. She dared to smile at him.

“You sound like a god I would pray to.” Her smile turned sheepish. “I’m a bit thirsty, by the way.”

Ithaqua nodded and reached to pick her up again. She did not flinch, probably because she was too exhausted to try and run away.

“That is understandable. You slept for a very long time.”

He carried her to the small pile of gold, where the bones and equipment of the last seven explorers he had eaten laid untouched. Carrie quickly realized what she was looking at and swallowed audibly. Still, she gingerly went through the several backpacks, where she found clean clothes for herself, along with canteens for water and several cans of food, whose expiry dates she read aloud.

“It says here, this food is going to be uneatable by 1935.” She looked up at Ithaqua. “When did you get these?

“I captured their previous owners two moons ago.”

She nodded uneasily and continued studying the contents of the backpacks, where she eventually found a small tattered book. Her hands shook as she leafed through it, even though Ithaqua’s breath had prevented her from feeling any cold.

“The last entry was written on December 6, 1932.” Carrie whispered, mostly to herself. “Which means that today is… February 1933.” She stared at the pages, as if trying to decide whether the book was authentic. “This can’t be right… It was 1979 when… when it happened.“

The mystery surrounding her slowly began to unfold. Ithaqua considered the effect his words might have on the girl before speaking.

“Nyarlathotep” he began, and the tiny human cringed like an agonizing animal, “is capable of traveling through time and space, by the virtue of lacking a true physical form.”

“No!” she gasped. “Don’t… don’t…”

“I cannot guess for what purpose Nyarlathotep took you, but you are far away you’re your home...”

“Don’t say that name!” Carrie screamed, and her shriek reverberated off the cavern’s glistening walls. “He… he… lying… mask…” 

Her knees gave up and she collapsed on the ground, where she began shivering… no, sobbing. She was crying without tears.

“Although I can guess that, just like everything else, he did it in service of Azathoth…”

Her shivers ceased immediately when the last name left Ithaqua’s mouth. She froze in her place, like a small animal trying to remain undetected by a predator. 

It took her a while before she came back from whatever dark place the mere mention of the Blind Idiot God had sent her. The food from the explorers’ backpacks recaptured her interest.

When she opened a can of beans without even touching the lid, Ithaqua understood why she had attracted the attention of the Crawling Chaos, and how she had managed to escape his clutches. The air around her quickly got saturated with the power that seemed to radiate from her like heat from a fire.

Her talent was preciously rare for her species. Ithaqua wondered at what lengths Nyarlathotep had gone to obtain this extraordinary human and why he was yet to appear and claim her. The Wind-Walker did not ask Carrie any questions – he had learned all he needed to know. He let her eat in peace and sleep on his chest, where she covered herself with one of the cleaner fur coats - more out of some human habit rather than an actual need. 

After making sure she was asleep, Ithaqua himself surrendered to slumber, though for reasons far more complicated than the need to rest.

***

The appearance of creatures like Ithaqua was if not welcomed, then at least tolerated in the rare cases when they dared set their proverbial feet in the realm beyond the Gate. It was all quite similar to the order that reigned in the Court of Azathoth – one had to either be summoned… or needed. 

The Ancient Ones, who simultaneously presided over and guarded the void between the universes, let the Wind-Walker fly right past the pedestals on which they sat, like a cold draught passing underneath the gold-plated doors of a glorious temple. Ithaqua ignored them as well. He focused all his attention on their master.

Yog-Sothoth greeted him in the shape of ‘Umr at-Tawil, whose shimmering veils and transparent flesh assured Ithaqua that he would be spared from being enveloped in the nightmarish cocoon of Yog-Sothoth’s presence, where all sense of individuality and purpose was lost. It was an oddly affable gesture for a being that, for all intents and purposes, was the sentient shadow of an entire universe. Ithaqua thought he could glimpse familiar features in the translucent mess of tentacles, hair and… blisters? Bubbles? _Spheres?_... that was supposed to be a face.

Yog-Sothoth spoke.

**Here is my offer…**

Ithaqua listened.

**Your most faithful minions, in exchange for safe passage through your territories.**

Only the promise of such miracle deserved an eternity of servility that would have to overshadow even Great Cthulhu’s efforts. Ithaqua envisioned the loneliness of the vast and eternally frozen lands that doubled as his prison. He could recall perfectly clear the roar of his beloved pet…

“Safe passage granted. Whom should I expect?”

**Worry not, you are sure to recognize him. Now listen and do as you are told…**

***

On the following day, Ithaqua began teaching Carrie how to walk on wind.

***

The strange creature that could only be described as a flesh golem arrived soon after Carrie had managed to stay up in the air for longer than an hour. Ithaqua noticed him almost immediately, even though it had been thousands of years since he had last smelled or seen a proper golem. He allowed his new pet to do the talking, mostly because Ithaqua considered golems to be, on the whole, slightly more useful than sleds and just as capable of expressing a worthwhile opinion. 

He was also curious to see how Carrie would handle the situation – he had noticed that she was unusually coherent for a human, provided that the names of Nyarlathotep and Azathoth were not mentioned; the former drove her into a irrational frenzy, while the latter caused her to temporarily go numb. It was almost as if she had used up her lifetime supply of shock and fear during her time spent with the Crawling Chaos.

While observing the interaction between the two, however, Ithaqua noticed several things – one, this particular golem was astonishingly human-like in both appearance and behavior; two, he was human-like in an unthreatening and tolerable way; and three, he was the last creature on this planet that would seek to harm Carrie.

Ithaqua spent one moon with them, which proved to be enough time for the human to become a confident flier and for the golem to all but swear his allegiance to him. It had been millennia since the Wind-Walker last entered the ‘benevolent deity’ mode – he preferred the smell of fear to the sound of adoration. 

On their last night, before they fell asleep on his chest as usual, Ithaqua spoke to them at length about loneliness and isolation before mentioning a specific cave on Ellesmere Island, Canada  and a certain brilliant physician in Boston, MA, U.S.A…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn under what circumstances Ithaqua met Carrie White and Adam Frankenstein. Also, Yog-Sothoth makes an appearance. Ithaqua in particular turned out to be surprisingly fun to write.


	9. North Wind

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors**

**Chapter 6: North Wind**

**May 19, 1934. 23:49**

It had been a ridiculously long and tiresome day – instead of quietly focusing on his chemicals while his only remaining assistant puttered about the morgue, Herbert West had been forced to deal with what felt like tons of paperwork, courtesy of that ignoramus Morgan from the university. 

By the time he finished, his colleague had left; and rather than going back home and getting some much needed sleep, Herbert decided to choose the corpses he would need for the next series of experiments. His exhaustion became apparent when he found himself writing down the same figures for a third time in his notebook. He ripped out the page in a fit of nerves, barely resisting the urge to chew it up.

Herbert had a very good reason to feel agitated, besides his exasperation with the banality of everyday routine. Several days ago, he had finally run some tests on himself, away from the prying eyes of other specialists, and had discovered, to his endless astonishment, several different blood types flowing casually through his veins, along with unmistakable traces of his own solution. The discovery had shaken him to his core. Whoever – or whatever – had apparently spent twelve years preserving his stitched-up body, had also had access to some of his rogue ‘patients’, and possibly to his solution. The very idea of someone else fiddling with the work of his life made the doctor’s skin crawl.

Herbert convinced himself to let the corpses be, at least for tonight. It wasn’t like he had any other projects to attend to…

Someone rang the bell in the foyer.

Herbert sighed. That was probably Pickman; the ghoul was still hoping for a quick midnight meal, even after he had patiently explained that no, the morgue is _not_ a cadaver kitchen, and no, it’s _never_ going to become one, I don’t care how much you enjoy the taste of formaldehyde.

He stomped his feet harder than it was considered polite as he walked to the reception, where the other shoe had dropped at last, in the form of a giant, well-dressed and very strange man that resembled a flesh rag-doll.

***

Herbert West mused upon everything he had heard for about half a minute, before unbuttoning his collar to show the stitch marks at the base of his throat to the unexpected visitor.

“Do you _see_ this magnificent work? Do you _notice_ how skillfully I have been p-put back together after m-my ‘patients’ tore me t-to pieces?” The doctor couldn’t help but stutter as he banished the memory of his dying moments to the cluttered back of his otherwise meticulously organized mind. 

The very strange man nodded hesitantly; clearly he had not expected this kind of reaction to his introduction. 

“Well, I did _notice_ it, and now I _see_ you with your gigantic hands, which I simply can’t envision holding a needle, let alone piecing back together an entire corpse.” Herbert hastily rolled up his sleeves next, to present the jagged scars below the elbows where the skin had been brutally torn to ribbons. “Before you say another word, I want to know who the hell helped you and why they are not here.“

Adam Frankenstein gave a nervous chuckle.

“Is this your main concern - that I have not brought my friend here to introduce you properly?”

Herbert gave him one of his patented ‘don’t you dare waste my time’ looks as he sneered at the very strange man:

“What, you expect me to be impressed? I figured out the method of my revival all by myself. You _somehow_ stitched me up, all the different tissues, bones, blood vessels, nerves, et cetera, and you did several blood transfusions, using biological material from my experiments. I’m honestly not surprised about the time travel part of your explanation… “

“Rearranging of time and space.” Mr. Frankenstein corrected softly.

“… Whatever. I mean, I wake up a decade after the whole ordeal to discover that it’s become something of an urban legend; believe me, I have heard – and even fabricated – far stranger explanations. “

“You had your neighbors help you come to that particular conclusion, did you not?”  
   
Herbert almost gaped at the man, before narrowing his eyes in suspicion. 

“How much do you know about those freaks?”

“Very little, I have to admit; however, I care not about their agendas.”

Mr. Frankenstein shifted, twirling his hat in his hands. The doctor couldn’t help but try and draw parallels between him and Wilbur Whateley, who was just as tall and humanoid, and the Deep One Khaa’r, who was almost as muscular and broad-shouldered. Frankenstein somehow dwarfed them both – his stitching, done with wire instead of thread, and the almost translucent skin, which revealed the movement of each muscle and the swelling of every artery, looked even more unnatural than Wilbur’s deformities, because he lacked the aura of unearthliness, instead being painfully, grotesquely human in his entirety; and while Khaa’r could easily match Frankenstein’s smooth, quiet movements and obvious physical prowess, he probably did not stand out as much among his brethren as much as this man did in the company of humans.  

Mr. Frankenstein grinned at Herbert, guessing the direction of his thoughts. His smile was oddly pleasant, befitting his relaxed pose, and pearly white.

“You are currently dissecting me, doctor, trying to uncover the methods of my creation, comparing them to your own techniques.”

“You were made from spare body parts, some from humans and others from animals. The presence of metal wires hints of the usage of electricity, and I speculate there are additional metal components inside of you, most likely following the spinal cord and the peripheral nervous system, thus connecting the vital organs and the muscles with the brain.”

Mr. Frankenstein’s smile slipped off his face, only to be replaced with a look that conveyed both surprise and veneration. 

“Do you also happen to be capable of reading my mind like an open book, doctor?”

Herbert folded his arms on his chest and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight.  

“No, but you have a terrible poker face, with that practically see-through skin.”

“Ah, I understand.” 

“That was a joke, by the way. I am the life of the party, can’t you tell?”

Mr. Frankenstein scratched the top of his head, his knuckles almost brushing the low ceiling. He was probably even taller than Khaa’r with his dorsal fins unfolded.

“My friend did mention that you are astonishingly calm, for someone in such peculiar situation.”

“How would he know?” 

“She checks up on you often.” Here the very strange man paused to savor the shocked expression on the doctor’s face. “Please understand, unlike you, she _is_ capable of reading minds, and also unlike you, she has a great sense of humor.”  
   
“ _She?_ ” Herbert’s tone could carve ice sculptures in August.

“She also did most of the sewing, because, like you said, my own hands are too large to hold the needle. Very talented, my friend is. Do you want to sit, doctor? You suddenly paled.”

***

Mr. Frankenstein followed after Herbert as the doctor walked briskly around the reception desk and to the small bench near the entrance. He took off his glasses and began viciously rubbing his face, as if to ward off the oncoming blush. Mr. Frankenstein’s timid offer of smelling salts was met with a dirty look and earned him a weak slap on his wrist.

“Do I look like a fainting lady?” the doctor growled.

“Somewhat.” Frankenstein shrugged.

Eventually, Herbert deemed himself composed enough to continue their conversation.

“Walking corpses, inter-dimensional travel, reading minds – all that I can handle, and by handle I mean understand.” He ran fingers through his hair, snagging on several tangles and wincing in pain. “Women, however…”

“My friend is an engaging young lady – very modest and kind...”

“I don’t care if she knits jumpers for the homeless; _she saw me naked_.”

“You know, my friend was a lot more reasonable about it, and she abhors the smell of blood.”

“Are you calling me a wimp?”

“You certainly have a juvenile streak to your character.” 

They had an impromptu glaring contest. Herbert won by a landslide. Frankenstein averted his gaze, obviously unused to such competitions.

“How did you find me anyway?” the doctor asked after a while. “The… pieces of me, I mean.”

“Your ‘patients’, as you so lovingly call them, had carried your remains into the sewers of Boston.” The very strange man answered promptly. “From that moment on, however, they were stuck in an endless loop of triumph that my friend and I intruded upon.”

“Wait, hold on. First you tell me that they were moved forward in time, and now you’re saying…”

“They were torn off from their position in time and space and trapped like insects in amber, hidden safely away from anyone but those who know where to look. It was explained to us that this was one of the many defects that originated during the universe’s shift.“

Defects – that word caused Herbert to remember an evening spent swapping stories over a bottle of whiskey, and he bitterly recalled his hopeful words, about divine purpose and destiny.

His body not rotting away in the clutches of the reanimated horde – a defect. Ephraim Waite’s ‘cancelled’ murder – a defect. Wilbur Whateley’s resurrection – a def... No, wait.

What had Randolph told him about Wilbur’s father? A deity of some sort, all-knowing and all-seeing, locked out of the Space-Time continuum and yet _being_ the Space-Time continuum… And that entity had summoned Randolph to lead its son back to the Waking World, after resurrecting him.

Time and space.

Wilbur’s resurrection.

A shift in the universe.

Frankenstein did not seem to hear the wheels turning in Herbert’s head, picking up their pace as he connected the dots. He droned on:

“During that shift, I somehow managed to cross from my reality to this one, and my friend succeeded in escaping a most horrible fate. As luck would have it, we met in the lands beyond the Arctic Circle, when I unwittingly entered the Wind-Walker’s lair. His generosity knew no bounds, and we owe him much. The three of us, I mean – me, my friend, and you, doctor.” 

***

**May 21, 1934 11:12**

Carrietta White, who had recently begun answering to Carrie again, was _not_ having the time of her life. Then again, spending several hours perched on a tiled roof was not something people normally did for fun. There was no word on whether it was done for the safety of mankind, either, but she digressed.

Mr. Armitage believed that he had finally uncovered a pattern of some sorts, using February 2nd 1933 as a starting point – something about ‘the stars being right’, about the universe itself arranging in such a way that would allow Yob-Soddoth (or however Whateley’s supposed father was called) to undo his Spawn’s demise. Armitage had worked out which days had or would have astronomical alignments similar to those on February 2nd, or Candlemas as it was also known, and the check-in date written down in the library’s catalogue for Carrie’s book – it was the presence of the later that convinced the librarian that time and space continued being reshuffled. He had even prepared a list of ‘suspected’ days, many of which had been marked by small earthquakes and mysterious fires occurring in several different towns and villages in Massachusetts. 

According to Armitage’s latest calculations, today was one of those days.

Carrie’s position on the roof was well-hidden, thanks to the tall trees planted on both sides of the street. She took several deep breaths, congratulated herself on finding a spot right across her targeted building, and began scanning the Crowninshield House. 

Her mind acknowledged each grass stalk and pebble in the small garden and grazed the doors and the windows before carefully seeping inside. Then her thoughts dispersed, filling the air like weak perfume, reaching every corner in every room, feeling up the walls and the furniture, ultimately entering the inhabitants’ nostrils and brains and minds.

She started from the basement, where a familiar body had curled up in one of the antique armchairs while reading through a very old, hand-written tome…

_hello, doctor, we haven’t met officially but I already know you’ll be embarrassed to talk to me when we do; you’ve been thinking of me, how nice, you’ve been wondering how I managed to put you back together; let me assure you, it was a bitch to reconnect everything, and blood everywhere, I had to shove mint leaves up my nose to dull the stench; oh, you like Adam so I guess you’re alright, he’s ignited your interest and who gave you this book anyway; the Wind-Walker scares you, doesn’t he; you’ll like him too, he’s cuddly_

… before moving to the apartment above, where everything glowed with unnatural vitality, even the dry flowers in the vases, and where two women were sharing an early lunch by the kitchen’s window…

_ah, Whateley’s companion **human** the woman whose mind changes in a heartbeat **butterfly** even if she prefers this form best **squid** she hasn’t transformed her body for quite a while **pelican** and her mind is brimming with all the possibilities she’s been missing **wolf** she’s thinking of him right now **goat** she seems to be in love; and who is this, I haven’t seen anything like her before, gentle creature, I shouldn’t spend so much time here, she might sense me, so fragile, like a leaf_

… and then to the apartment above this one, which was filled with dangerous books and weapons, all dripping with silent horror and the ghost of dead blood, and where two monsters were playing Go Fish…

_Whateley, I found him, I found him, Gytrash still remembers the taste of his flesh, the poor puppy; and he’s so familiar, he reminds me of someone I hate, and fear, and I refuse to fear anything I can kill; ah, the dolphin is here too, they appear to be friends, their minds complement each other nicely, and yet he will not hesitate to kill; dolphin, dolphin, I will not forget that arrow, my face will heal but you won’t, not after I’m done with you, you coward, you thief, creeping into other people’s homes and hearts, because yours are empty; also you totally have a five, and Whateley knows it_

… and then to apartment on the last, third floor, where a very busy man was fussing over his ironing board…

_the owner of this place, or so it seems; those wood carvings on the walls are annoying but I mustn’t rip them off; guilt, so much guilt, because three people died so he can live and in the end he’s holed up in this old house, playing host; and this is all so confusing, what is wrong with this man, like a cactus in a cooking pot, where did that come from, panic, dark, bullets, one two three four five six, nightmare or was it, I need to look into this later_

… and then she focused on Whateley’s neighbors, the king and the cannibal, who were arguing about whether the black cat in the king’s lap could have its friends over for dinner…

_king, king, crown marks on his head, but where is his kingdom; ask and you shall receive, walk and you shall reach, listen and you shall know, dream and you shall see; Your Highness, what is that key that you carry, which door does it open, I don’t want to know, don’t tell me, the Court, the Court, or something worse, why don’t you go back to your kingdom, Your Highness, and never return, and take the cannibal with you, and you, cannibal, take off that costume and be yourself, you aren’t a human, finish your paintings and leave, I can see mists around you, waiting for you to disappear into them, away from this world; I actually like you two, you don’t reek of blood like the others_

… and then the last, smallest apartment – quiet and barely used…

_MOMMA_

and then Carrie sensed Nahab’s presence. 

In the house she was supposed to be watching in case Whateley did something weird. In the house she could not physically enter because doing so would most likely end with a massacre.

Carrie’s mind stopped unraveling at its edges and for the first time she could differentiate between the dimension-hopping witch and the memory of her mother. It was like arriving home and flipping on the light switch, only to notice that you are in the wrong house. 

Why was she so obsessed with the old woman, whose only fault was her willingness to sacrifice children in the name of her god? Why…

Because her Momma did the same, to her own child. To herself. All in the name of a god who never listened and never cared.

Carrie sighed deeply as her irreparably damaged mind broke down again. Her thoughts left the building and began arranging themselves into an orderly picture; the familiarity of the process reminded her of assembling an intricate dress from various pieces of fabric. 

She waited.

***

**May 21, 1934 19:28**

A gust of cold wind swept through Arkham at sunset, bending the tops of the highest trees and tearing at the young leaves, as a swarm of dark clouds crawled from the north towards the bleeding sun, like vultures trailing after a dying animal. Several stars could still be glimpsed; their frantic twinkle instilled a vague sense of dread in anyone who cared to observe them. 

Khaa’r crouched in preparation for his leap to the nearest roof when he saw the familiar silhouette perched upon one of the chimneys there. Her back was turned to him, but there was no mistaking the pretentious white shawl and the long blond hair that glowed like molten gold under the last sun rays.

The Deep One slowly prepared his cross-bow, mentally cursing at himself for not snapping her neck the first time round, and aimed. He hoped he would manage to kill her with one shot, instead of chasing her through half the city. 

The girl turned to face him just as he pressed the trigger. Both of them started when their eyes met.

The arrow froze inches away from her neck, where it continued spinning slowly in the air.  
Khaa’r could not help but raise a spike-covered eyebrow at that feat. She was either very lucky or getting better. He needed to obtain a gun. 

The girl’s face was unreadable when she quipped:

“How very honorable, to attack a woman from behind.”

Khaa’r shrugged as he loaded another arrow. He pointedly did not look at her as he remarked:

“Honor is for the dead.”  

“And death is for the villains. See the logic?”

She was smiling now, and very attractively at that. The Deep One only saw a baring of teeth, preceded by a not-too-subtle threat. He rested his hand on his hip, close to the handle of a dagger.

“What does it matter to you, who is a villain and who is not?” 

The girl lifted her chin. 

“I take it upon myself to punish the oppressors and avenge the weak.” 

Khaa’r nodded, managing to look sufficiently impressed with her statement.

“Ten thousand years ago, you would have been hailed as a great hero. The bards would have written odes dedicated to your adventures. Also, you would have worn a ridiculously shaped breastplate and an impractical chainmail skirt more appropriate for a themed brothel than for a glorious battle.”

The spinning arrow was crushed into a tiny ball of wood and metal. The girl was livid - the scarred side of her face twitched several times while her hands balled into fists. The Deep One aimed for her stomach and pulled the dagger from its sheath.

Then, without a single word, she took off - turned her back on him and half-flew, half-slid downwards, to the unlit back alleys. Khaa’r made no attempt to follow her, choosing to go back to the apartment before it started raining. 

So she was keeping a low profile, he thought, and wished to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed. 

A collector of information, then. Just like him.

***

The lone figure was sitting on one of the hundreds of icebergs that littered the ocean near Cape York in Greenland. It was currently soaking its toeless feet in the icy water, occasionally splashing around as if to paddle the iceberg farther away from its ‘herd’. The creature’s shape was vaguely humanoid, meaning it had a pair of long legs and a pair of even longer arms that ended with a total of eight hook-like claws; disheveled white fur and patches of needle ice covered its body. The creature’s size was roughly the same as that of the iceberg it rode. 

Nyarlathotep plopped himself next to Ithaqua as noisily as his current form allowed him. He had procured an impressive-looking coat made from three bear skins especially for this visit, but had forgotten to get a hat as well, which resulted in his black hair and moustache being covered with frost and thus ruining the overall effect of his ensemble.

“Look here, Yeti.” He began. “I understand everything.” Ithaqua continued to ignore him, so Nyarlathotep pressed on. “I understand the feeling of loneliness, stemming from millennia spent in this desolate waste. I sympathize with your desire for a worthy companion and your longing to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet... “

“No, you don’t.”

Ithaqua’s long neck twisted to look at the temporarily human Outer God. His face was oddly flat and his eyes appeared to be a dark shade of pink. 

“You do not know anything about solitude, Messenger.” Ithaqua whispered with a deceptively soft tone that was not unlike the distant roar of an avalanche. “Your collection of faces and forms is almost as rich in variety as the Court of the Blind Idiot God, and I imagine that you have traveled a long way to embezzle each of yours masks.“

Nyarlathotep did not even blink at the accusation.

“I have always offered a fair trade.”

“You offer everything one could wish for, in exchange for everything they were, are and could be.”

“Which is _fair_. Allowing them to bargain with me, that is; I’m giving them a choice.”

Ithaqua averted his face to stare at the jagged horizon ahead of the iceberg. He pulled his legs out of the water, letting the currents do their work. Nyarlathotep leaned back on his elbows and hummed.

“What choice did that girl have, then?” the Wind-Walker asked gruffly.

“The choice between staying and going mad.” The Crawling Chaos answered without missing a beat.

“After she fell from the sky, she slept a very long time. I shudder to image what she has gone through in your hands.”

“She had a very tiring journey, that’s all – from the Court, through the Dreamlands, to one of your glaciers.”

Ithaqua clawed at the edge of the iceberg in a bored manner. He soaked his fingers in the ocean for a while before speaking again.

“She woke up in time for the golem’s arrival; as if his presence called to her.”

Nyarlathotep’s human face contorted into a frown.

“They are as outer and foreign to this universe as I am to this planet; it’s only natural that they would seek each other out.”

Both pondered the implications of that for a while. 

“Their interaction pleased me, and when they left, my home felt empty.”

“They didn’t leave on their own accord, as far as I know.”

A  pause that lasted several human heartbeats.

“What are you implying?”

“You shared some very important information with the golem, before forcing both of them out. You also ‘shared’ quite a bit of treasure from your temples.”

“They needed gold. Humans set great store by it...”

“Gold-shmold. You send them on a quest!”

Nyarlathotep stood up with a huff and began pacing back and forth. 

“You asked them to find the reanimator and bring him to you. What for? The races that worshiped you are gone, along with Hyperborea itself. Your children were cripples at their best and treacherous at their worst.” Ithaqua seemed to pay no attention to the ranting god. “And that’s not even the stupidest part. What were you thinking, making a deal with Yog-Sothoth? Because _he_ is the only one who could have told you about the reanimator – after all, _he_ is the one who created this whole mess.”

“Long periods of isolation – nay, imprisonment - often delude the common sense.” 

Nyarlathotep snorted.

“There’s a very good reason _he_ was locked out of this universe. So far only mortals have been foolish enough to ignore that.”

Ithaqua’s answer was like an unexpected bite.

“He offered a fair trade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we FINALLY meet Frankenstein's monster, we get a taste of what Carrie 'sees' with her mind, and Ithaqua makes an appearance. :D Also, Nyarlathotep is a drama queen.
> 
> I have this headcanon that Helen Vaughan is capable of shape-shifting into different animals, often partially and at the same time for added shock value. XD I hope this explains her 'passage' from Carrie's POV.
> 
> Something curious happened to me while writing this chapter. Let me quote Neil Gaiman, since he explains it a lot better than I could possibly hope to: 'The best thing about writing fiction is that moment where the story catches fire and comes to life on the page, and suddenly it all makes sense and you know what it's about and why you're doing it and what these people are saying and doing, and you get to feel like both the creator and the audience. Everything is suddenly both obvious and surprising ("but of course that's why he was doing that, and that means that...") and it's magic and wonderful and strange'.
> 
> Forgot to mention - google Yob Soddoth and giggle. :D


	10. Getting A Clue

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 7: Getting A Clue  
  
May 25, 1934 14:14**  
  
The smallish black cat in Randolph Carter’s arms uncannily mimicked the man’s crestfallen face.  _Why must you hurt my human so, fishy?_ , it seemed to ask as it mewed loudly and twisted to pat Randolph’s nose.  _Now I have to make my human happy again. Smile, human._  
  
Khaa’r could not help but be reminded of a rather unpleasant king he had assassinated several thousands years ago, who had been just as fond of cats. The man had used the purring creatures to add an air of mystique and grace to his appearance, without much success – every inch of his bloated body had been covered with scars and the palace had reeked of the animals. Randolph Carter, however, was capable of making a wildcat behave like a playful young kitten with just a distracted scratch under its chin (and a timely bowl of cream).  
  
“I’m sorry to hear you won’t be able to come to my book’s first public reading. It’s going to be very interesting.” Randolph cracked a brief smile at the cat, which blinked smugly at Khaa’r, as if to say  _See? My human is happy._  
  
“Hopefully I will have the opportunity to attend one of these readings before I leave dry land permanently.”  The Deep One stuck out his bottom lip. “I would also like to thank you for the costume you prepared for me. I regret not having the chance to try it on”   
  
“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be spared from witnessing the traditional screaming match between Ephraim and Albert Wilmarth from the university.” Randolph’s scowl was immediately patted away by a fluffy paw. “And I’ll let you know, I was also forced to wear a similar disguise for a while, when I was stuck in an alien’s body. The turban would’ve fit you well.”   
  
“I am certain of that.”  
  
“You won’t be staying in Innsmouth for very long, I hope.”  
  
“Only for two or three weeks. My mother and sisters wish to see me before retiring to their summer residence. I am going to ask you to keep this information confidential, however.” Here Khaa’r lowered his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Ephraim suspects that I am actually testing the waters for a future invasion or something, and now I have to report to Cthulhu.” Randolph snorted with amusement at that. “Needless to say, I am quite flattered.”  
  
“At least you’ll take some time off from babysitting Wilbur.”  
  
“This reminds me that I will have to hide my helmets before leaving. Thank you for the understanding, my friend. Celebrate this evening, for it is yours!”  
  
Khaa’r gave a curt bow in the small corridor and Randolph nodded graciously, before retreating to their respective apartments.   
  
***  
  
“Ye know I can always pick the lock, right?” Wilbur drawled from the armchair while pretending to read a book. His tail-mouth hissed in irritation.  
  
Khaa’r shrugged and locked his bedroom’s door for a second time. He had piled most of his belongings inside for safe-keeping and now the living room looked odd and dark without all the various weapons glittering in the afternoon light.   
  
“Yeah, that’s gonna stop me.”  
  
“I cannot have you prancing around in my armor, Will.”  
  
“I don’t prance.”  
  
“Yes, you do.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”  
  
“Yes, you do.”  
  
“Nuh-uh.”  
  
” _Yuh-huh_.”  
  
Wilbur looked up from his book to grin at Khaa’r as the Deep One made his way to the couch. He sat carefully on its edge and began collecting the daggers that were still scattered on the coffee table, deftly wrapping each blade in a piece of silk and arranging them in a massive iron box.   
  
Unlike most of the equipment he had brought from R’lyeh, the daggers were something Khaa’r actually valued; the gilded armor, helmets and shield were rewards he had earned for his previous missions – they were symbols of glory which he was proud to own and display, and even wear from time to time. However, it was the daggers and the throwing stars, the crossbow and the arrows that Khaa’r could not survive without. And even more important that these pieces of metal and wood were the millennia spent away from his mother’s protective embrace – living in foreign lands among inhospitable races and creatures, always on guard, always on a mission. Khaa’r collected experience in the same way Wilbur Whateley collected knowledge – instinctively and indiscriminately, and the process usually involved murdering/stealing/setting something on fire.    
  
“I will be back in a week.” Khaa’r glanced from his work to the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth. “Please try not to get killed in my absence. And do some cleaning for a change.”  
  
Wilbur’s mouth formed an offended ‘o’ at the last request.  
  
“I’ve been doin’ the cleanin’ ‘ere since we moved in!” he cried.  
  
“Because it is usually your mess that you clean.” Khaa’r shot back, unruffled.  
  
Wilbur rolled his eyes. His roommate was right, so he switched the topic of conversation.   
  
“Ye sure ye don’t wanna go with Ephraim’s car? I know where ‘e keeps the spare keys.”  
  
“We talked about this already…”  
  
“C’mon, it’ll be fun…”  
  
“I have already made arrangements.” Khaa’r placed the last dagger in the box and closed its lid. “Besides, Helen probably wants to honor Randolph and his new book.”  
  
To his surprise, Wilbur’s face darkened. He returned to his book and began flipping through the pages with his tail, obviously not caring whether his secondary tongue got a paper-cut.   
  
“Oh, right… The readin’. Yeah.“  
  
Khaa’r knew Wilbur to light up like one of those trees humans would decorate for the Winter Solstice whenever Helen Vaughan was mentioned. His affection was far from unrequited, too. The Deep One raked his brain, but as far as he knew, their happiness was unclouded – not an argument in sight.      
  
“You are not going?” he finally guessed, and watched his roommate swallow thickly.  
  
After a couple of minutes, Wilbur caved in. Most people just blurted out what they had to say but did not want to as quickly as possible, the words rushing to their mouth like a shoal of fish; Wilbur did the exact opposite.  
  
“I... I can’t jus’ show up like that… like a normal hyuman.”   
  
Khaa’r was at loss now. What did Wilbur want to show up like anyway – a whale?  
  
“Of course you can not show up like a human. Because of your father’s indescribable nature, you are a half-human at best, or a chimera, if you would prefer a more sophisticated appellation based on your appearance rather than your genetics…”  
  
The Spawn of Yog-Sothoth made a miserable face at him.   
  
“What is the problem?”  
  
“People’re gonna stare. An’ I hate that.”  
  
“They most certainly will if you and Helen do no keep your hands off each other for the duration of the event.”  
  
Wilbur’s sad expression shifted into an annoyed glare. He harrumphed as he angrily turned several more pages, not caring whether he damaged the paper.  
  
“This is the last time I’m tryin’ to talk with ye ‘bout… emotions an’ stuff.” He mumbled under his nose. “Damn Carter an’ ’is sharin’-and-carin’ bullshit…”  
  
Khaa’r blinked very slowly.  
  
“Perhaps if you spent more time talking with me instead of ‘swapping spit’, as Pickman elegantly put it, with Helen, I would actually be able to help you…”  
  
To his eternal joy, Wilbur immediately flared up.  
  
“Can we forget ‘bout this whole conversation? Please?”  
  
“Can you also do my laundry while I am away? Please?”  
  
“… Fair enough.”  
  
***  
  
 **May 26, 1934 19:06**  
  
Richard Pickman was bouncing in the back seat of Ephraim Waite’s car like an overexcited five-year-old, chanting happily ‘still not banned, still not banned’ at the top of his lungs and occasionally kicking the back of Randolph’s seat.   
  
Randolph however ignored him in order to have a proper creator breakdown, wringing his hands and muttering to himself.  
  
“I’m still not banned. They still haven’t banned my book… Where did I go wrong?”  
  
Herbert West cast a disdainful if short-sighted glance at the two while cleaning his glasses.  
  
“I’ll never understand you artists.” He declared. “Frightfully messed-up in the heads, the whole bunch.”  
  
Ephraim plopped himself into the driver seat, looking exasperated beyond description.  
  
“Turns out Helen and her niece have gone out earlier and will join us in the club.” He announced. “And Will said he’ll come after sunset, which was kind of expected...”  
  
Randolph seemed to have heard none of that. He pulled at his landlord’s sleeve.  
  
“Eph… what if everyone hates my book? What if somebody calls it mediocre or unimaginative?”  
  
“I’ll break their nose for you, no big deal.”   
  
“It’s been out for a week and I haven’t received a single letter from a church offering a free exorcism. I’m worried…” Randolph fidgeted some more for emphasis.  
  
“I told you to add more tentacles.” Pickman called from the backseat.   
  
***  
  
Carrie White watched from her usual roof as the car left. While she knew that the dolphin would be absent for quite a while, she wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. In a way, it was like pulling out a baby tooth – one sharp thug, and life goes on as usual.  
  
Carrie focused on the one remaining tenant that needed to get the hell out of her way. She clenched her jaw. If it hadn’t been for that stupid, ugly, annoying Whateley, the old witch would have been dead meat by now.  
  
***  
  
Wilbur finished the magical circle and gave it an appraising look. Few things made him feel at complete peace with the world, Aklo being one of them – the process of writing out its symbols had a calming effect on his nonhuman mind. Aklo was something that could not be faked, destroyed or taken away. Wilbur understood Aklo in the same way he understood ley lines and alchemy – they spoke to him with kind, familiar voices that reminded him of a childhood spent among the hills of Dunwich.   
  
He sat in the middle of the circle, carefully wrapping his tail around himself. A small bowl of incense was placed in front of him, waiting to be lit. He waved at its general direction and spoke out the command for fire that wizards had devised thousands of years ago for the specific purpose of impressing people by lighting up their pipes with a single word. It was in Aklo, of course, and it was one of the few spells that could be performed without a complicated accompanying ritual.  
  
Wilbur took a deep breath, welcoming the smoke from the incense in his lungs, and began chanting. He felt the words coming alive while still in his throat, their essence bleeding into the world as they were spoken, gently forcing the reality around him to shift and change.    
  
***  
  
Carrie immediately forgot about Nahab, who was currently debating with herself whether to spit in the face of danger and attempt to leave the house via dimension-hopping, having sensed her enemy’s presence.  
  
Something unnatural was going on inside the house. Carrie frowned slightly when her searching mind took notice of Whateley’s weird actions. After several seconds she realized that he was performing some sort of a ritual – exactly what Mr. Armitage had asked her to look for.   
  
The strange signs around Whateley glowed brightly in her mind, searing themselves under her eyelids. They were drawn on the floor with some sort of powder that seemed to emit clarity, making it possible for Carrie’s mind to easily note ever the smallest details.  
  
Then Whateley started talking… or rather singing, and the world shook - very subtly, but Carrie felt every atom of her being vibrating in tune with the motion. A series of images appeared in her mind – a butterfly flapping its wings, a lightning bolt splitting into countless directions, a shattering glass window, Heaven and Hell being a hair’s breadth away from each other. Blinding light filled Whateley’s room, sinking into everything it touched like teeth into a piece of meat.   
  
Carrie was grateful for choosing to lie on the roof rather than sit. Her muscles had gone slack because of the effort it took to keep her mind focused on the house. She was dimly aware of Whateley chanting a familiar word – Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth, Yog-Sothoth. Her mind also heard something else underneath the eldritch name, something that sounded suspiciously like ‘fatherfatherfather’.  
  
She became aware of the crack that had appeared inside the circle only when the creature lurking beyond it reached out to give reality one last final poke. Her mind scrambled in panic as the alien presence brushed against her thoughts.  
  
 **You again?**  it said in a way she would later think of as unnervingly patient.  **You have been useful to me, little one. There shall be a place for you when I put this unstable universe in order.**  
  
She almost screamed, but then the light disappeared, the entity was gone and the crack in the universe healed itself shut.   
  
Carrie opened her eyes and let her thoughts rush out of the Crowninshield House and back into her brain. She knew exactly what she had seen.   
  
 _‘He’s picking the lock. That crack I saw… is like a door and he’s picking its lock.’_  
  
Armitage had told her all he knew about Yog-Sothoth and had described it as a personification of the Time-Space Continuum that was somehow locked outside the known universe.  
  
 _‘He’s picking the lock in order to let his father out… or in. But more importantly, he’s holding the door open so that his father can reach inside and change reality as it wishes.’_  
  
Wilbur Whateley and his twin had been born with the specific purpose of summoning the Old Ones, whoever those were, and wiping out all life on Earth. Armitage theorized that Whateley would attempt to finish the task.   
  
 _‘I have no idea what Whateley’s trying to do right now, but the old man needs to know that his schedule isn’t up-to-date. Nothing like this has ever happened on any of the days he marked as ‘suspicious’._  
  
Carrie shifted uncomfortably on the tiled roof. Her back felt sore and her limbs were stiff. She thought of calling it a day, before remembering the old witch. After all, she was the real reason for Carrie to be lurking around the apartment building on this day – the dolphin with the crossbow was not going to be around, and neither were the rest of the tenants; in short, she had the perfect conditions for committing a bloody murder.   
  
Her mind crept back inside the Crowninshield House. Carrie expected to see Nahab and her pet rat in a magical circle of their own, ready to pelt the first person to enter her humble abode with vials of blood.   
  
Instead, her mind found an empty apartment. No witch, no rat, no nothing.   
  
Only a patch of wall, covered with half-smeared symbols that had been written out with an oily red liquid…  
  
***   
  
When Wilbur heard the crash, he was in the process of sweeping up the circle of powder that was left after the ritual. He froze, kneeling on the floor, and listened as another crash followed promptly after the first one.  
  
A blood-curdling howl of rage pierced the air.   
  
Wilbur had not used a gun since the night when his old revolver betrayed him. As quiet as a cat, he sprinted down the two flights of stairs to investigate. When he reached the first floor, he was greeted with the sight of the solid front door lying on the ground in two halves. He crept towards Nahab de Salem’s apartment, whose door was also destroyed along with its frame.  
  
“WHERE ARE YOU?” Someone screamed and all the windows of the building were torn off the walls and hurled into the unkempt garden around the building. The lamps were then lit one by one, their light bulbs threatening to explode.   
  
Wilbur held his breath. The air hummed with unfamiliar power. He felt like a moth near a flyswatter.  
  
A young woman stood in the middle of Nahab’s living room, breathing heavily. Her long blond hair reached past her waist and covered her back and shoulders like a veil. She turned around in the precise moment Wilbur entered the apartment. Her dark eyes bulged like a rabid dog’s. Recognition flashed across her face, which was almost as white as her clothes.  
  
A table flew towards Wilbur, propelled by an unseen force. He spat out the Aklo word for ‘shield’, his resonating voice somehow managing to hit the right note in order to get the needed response. The table burst into hundreds of pieces in the middle of its flight.   
  
“Wilbur Whateley.” The woman growled. Yup, a rabid dog.   
  
“Present.” Wilbur quipped and mentally applauded himself for retaining composure.  
  
“An old woman is supposed to live here. A witch. I need to find her. Where is she?”  
  
“What d’ye want with ‘er?”  
  
“Where is she?”  
  
“What makes ye think I know or care?”  
  
The woman made a movement with her hand – like slapping someone across their face. Half the furniture in the room was dragged to the farthest corner, breaking in the process and leaving deep scratches on the parquet.  
  
Great. He had to deal with what was probably the most accomplished telekinetic in the world. Just what the hell had Nahab done to piss her off?  
  
“You were thinking of her. I sensed her name cross your mind.” The woman said before repeating her gesture. More furniture flew into the room from the kitchen, including cutlery and chinaware. Some of the items remained floating above the floor.  
  
Wilbur raised an impressed eyebrow. A telekinetic, a telepath, and a psycho – all in one unhinged package.   
  
“I was simply wonderin’ ‘ow she ‘ad the guts to git on  _yer_  bad side.”  
  
The woman eyed him suspiciously. Her features would have looked attractive on the face a saner person, but her undisguised madness warped them into something monstrous. Wilbur realized she could not be much older than him – he would eat Pickman’s hat if she was a day older than twenty.  
  
“Ye’ve been stalkin’ this house, ‘aven’t ye?”   
  
“Guilty.” The girl admitted. She began pacing the room slowly, walking towards what Wilbur knew was the southern wall.   
  
Several symbols had been drawn on the expensive wall-paper with thick reddish liquid. Some of them were in Aklo – Wilbur recognized the signs for different directions and numbers. He frowned slightly at what appeared to be the central symbol of the group – a stylized human figure wearing a long robe, drawn with black ink.  
  
The Dark Man, one of Nyarlathotep’s avatars.  
  
The girl noticed his look. She waved at him. Before he even knew what was happening, he was thrown at the painted wall with greater force than necessary. His vision swam as he slid down on the floor.  
  
“You’re lighter than I expected.”   
  
The girl crossed her arms and watched curiously as Wilbur instinctively wrapped his tail around himself.   
  
“I’ve been tol’ I don’t ‘ave a decent bone in my body.” He managed to wheeze. His back hurt like all hell.  
  
“Huh.” She jutted out a hip. “You seemed to know what these scribbles mean. Unfortunately, I have a better chance of reading ‘The Three Musketeers’ in original French than your thoughts. Your mind is like a fucking labyrinth, you know that?”  
  
“I’m both flattered  _an’_  flattened.”  
  
His joke fell on deaf ears.   
  
“You will tell me where the old witch is.” Three quarters of a chair, several knives and forks and a frying pan flew towards the girl and froze in the air around her. “And you will translate the scribbles.”  
  
Wilbur pretended to weight his options.  
  
“Okay, I’ll tell ye. Listen carefully.”  
  
And he began reciting his favorite curse in Aklo. The intonation of his voice caused chunks of plaster to fall from the ceiling. The girl threw up.   
      
He had to stop half a minute later. Instead, he started chanting the word for ‘shield’ over and over again, lest he was beaten to a pulp with every object in the room.   
  
***  
  
 **May 26, 1934 23:49**  
  
“That went well.” Herbert could not decide whether to be embarrassed or amused. “Everyone was very mature and civilized.” After all, it was not often that he had to stop a fight between two grown men by twisting their ears. “I’m thinking of becoming kindergarten teacher, seeing how well I deal with children.”  
  
“Please, you were enjoying yourself a whole lot.” Randolph was the one driving the car, since Ephraim had obtained a black eye from his scuffle with Albert Wilmarth.  
  
“I for one would like to commend our landlord on finally breaking the nose of Mr. I-Read-The-Necronomicon-Once-And-Only-Screamed-A-Little.” Pickman did not seem to mind that he, Herbert and Ephraim had been squeezed into the backseat of the car.   
  
“Yes, I especially liked the part when Wilmarth’s companion started shrieking for a doctor and you pointed at me.” Herbert’s voice was simply oozing sarcasm now.   
  
“The poor man bled all over a stack of books, Richard.” Randolph reminded him. “Not copies of my book, thank Providence, but still.”  
  
Nuala, who was sitting next to Helen in the passenger seat, woke up from her reverie. She was almost as tall as her aunt, pale, blonde and exquisitely beautiful, with graceful manners and a mild temper – all in all, a classical fey princess.   
  
“Wait, his name is Richard?” She said, craning her neck to look at the driver. “I thought he was just Pickman.”  
  
“Heh, it’s a funny story.” Randolph grinned, not taking his eyes off the road. “You see, we were in this bar in New Orleans, where we got spectacularly drunk. While the rest of our company sat on our table like the model citizens we were, Pickman managed to get himself invited to the dancers’ dressing room, where for some reason he scrawled  _Richard was here_  on one of the mirrors.”  
  
Pickman tried to interrupt, only to get elbowed into silence by Herbert. Even Helen, who was currently in a very bad mood and had uttered no more than a few sentences over the course of the entire evening, perked up her ears.  
  
“Then he comes back to the table, refuses to tell us what happened there, everything’s good for a while, and then the owner of the bar – a very skinny, very ugly, very angry man – interrupts the show, climbs up on the stage and start screaming” here Randolph did an over-exaggerated Cajun accent,  _‘Who is this Richard fellow and what the hell was 'e doin' with the girls?_ , to which Pickman oh-so-cleverly shouts back,  _I’m not Richard; heck, do I even look like a Richard? My name is Pickman, I’m not Richard, I don’t even know anybody named Richard, because I’m Pickman._  And then we had to run for our lives.”  
  
“But it’s true!” Pickman managed to shout over Herbert’s hysterical laughter and Nuala and Helen’s giggles. “I don’t look like a Richard!”  
  
Ephraim placed a comforting hand on the artist’s shoulder.  
  
“If it’s any consolation” he said in a completely serious tone, ”you still look like a Dick.”   
  
Pickman’s tone was sharper than necessary when he answered:  
  
“At least I don’t act like one.”  
  
Ephraim quickly crossed his arms and muttered something about Pickman being a sensitive little girl, only to get hissed at by Helen (“You talking about overreacting, that’s rich!”). Pickman and Herbert were quick to choose sides, getting them even more riled up (“You should know better, Ephraim; you’re over one hundred years old, for Pan’s sake!” “Look, if you’re angry because your boyfriend didn’t show up, don’t take in out on me, capisce?”). In the end, Randolph had to threaten to kick everyone out of the car (“Except Lady Nuala, of course.” “What? I am your roommate!” “This is my car you’re driving, pal!” “Good idea, throw them out like filthy mutts!” “That means you too, Helen.”)    
  
However, the quarrel was  immediately forgotten when they finally reached 80 High Street to find their house in terrible condition – all the lights were turned on, the garden was littered with glass from the broken windows, and one of the external walls of Nahab de Salem’s apartment was missing.   
  
***  
  
Ephraim forbade (under penalty of eviction) his tenants to leave in the car. He felt his pocket for the gun (ever since Daniel Upton’s suicide, he had never left the house unarmed) and practically ran inside, ready to make heads roll - literally.   
  
The first floor was a complete mess - the front doors of the house and Nahab’s apartment had been practically destroyed. His beloved parquet was hideously scratched and his beautiful wallpapers were ruined.   
  
He found Wilbur sitting on the floor of Nahab’s living room, looking half ready to faint from exhaustion. His hair and clothes were covered with plaster dust. Green blood was drying on his lips. The wall above his head was covered with hastily drawn Aklo symbols.  
  
“Git out…” he wheezed and more blood trickled down his beard, but a cheerful voice drowned his words.  
  
“About time you showed up!”   
  
A blonde girl, dressed from head to toe in white, stood amid the chaos of broken furniture, glass shards and pieces of porcelain. Several knives hung in the air around her like a halo, their sharp edges pointing outwards. She met Ephraim’s gaze and he shuddered involuntarily – the look in her eyes did not belong on a human face.   
  
“Where’s the old witch?” she asked bluntly.  
  
“You mean Nahab?” Ephraim looked back to Wilbur. “Is this whom she was hiding from?”    
His tenant nodded with great difficulty. He had managed to draw a semicircle around himself with his own blood and had scrawled the Aklo symbol for ‘sanctuary’ inside it.   
  
“Telekinesis. Also insane.”  He was referring to the girl. “Nahab escaped…”  
  
Ephraim drew out his pistol and aimed at the intruder. He had never actually shot a person, but hell if he’d let the special snowflake do any more damage.  
  
“You heard him. Nahab de Salem is not here. Now leave before I lose my patience.”  
  
The girl snorted in amusement.  
  
“Silly cactus!” she cooed. “I’m the one who makes the threats around here, not you.”  
  
The men dared to exchange confused glances. Wilbur mouthed ‘cactus?’ at Ephraim, who shrugged.  
  
Special Snowflake walked up to the wall with the scribbles. The knives followed after her like a school of fish. She pointed at each of the symbols, not taking her eyes off Ephraim’s face.  
  
“Look at this gibberish. It was left behind by the woman you call Nahab. I want you to translate it for me.”  
  
“Don’t tell ‘er anythin’!” Wilbur’s strangled shout startled the wizard. “Don’t even look at it!...”  
  
“It’s in Aklo.” Ephraim furrowed his brow, the scholar in him taking over. The signs did not make any sense when arranged like that. He unconsciously lowered the gun.  
  
“Don’t tell ‘er!”  
  
The girl burst out laughing. It sounded artificial and strained, as if she had practiced it back at home.   
  
“Too late!” She clapped her hands in delight. “He thought of it.”  
  
Wilbur sighed in defeat and tried to sit up straighter.  
  
“She’s a telepath… a mind-reader.”  
  
“I know perfectly well what ‘telepath’ means!” Ephraim waved at the scribbles. “This doesn’t make a lick of sense! There are symbols for directions, and for numbers, and for units of time… but there’s nothing to connect them. It’s like a list of ingredients without a recipe.”  
  
“Yer forgettin’ the sign in the middle…”  
  
“Yes, one of Nyarlathotep’s masks, but it won’t work unless you know how to summon …”  
  
The knife’s blade stopped an inch away from Ephraim’s eyes.   
  
“Don’t.” the girl said through clenched teeth. “Ever. Speak of  _him_. In my presence.”  
  
A gunshot broke the tense silence and the knife was flung away from Ephraim’s face.  
  
Helen entered through the hole in the wall, her pocket aimed at the girl now. She carefully made her way through the rubble without even pausing to look where she stepped. Her lips were drawn into a thin line and her hair was fluttering slightly, even though there was no wind or draughts to disturb her tresses.  
  
“Please excuse these idiots.” Her tone was deceptively light, more appropriate for pouring tea rather than threatening to shoot somebody in the face. “They can talk about Aklo and semantics till early dawn.”   
  
Ephraim seemed to remember he too was armed, and hurriedly aimed his own pistol back at the intruder.   
  
“I told you to stay outside.”   
  
“Shut up, Eph.”  
  
“Helen...”  
  
“Not now, Will.”  
  
Helen and Special Snowflake were sizing each other up. The knives discreetly aimed their blades at the new threat. Suddenly, the girl’s face was twisted by a nasty smirk.  
  
“Was that your best shot?” she mocked, seemingly unperturbed by the two guns pointing at her. “Try again.”  
  
Ephraim glanced at Helen, who shrugged and fired.   
  
The bullet seemed to slow down even as it exited the muzzle before stopping a foot away from the girl. It twirled twice and dropped on the floor. Helen cocked her gun quickly, but did not shoot again.   
  
The girl gasped in surprise.   
  
“I did it.” She allowed herself a quick, sincere smile that made her sour face startlingly pretty. “I mean, I knew I had it in me, but I actually did it. I am sooo treating myself to some chocolate tomorrow!”  
  
She rubbed her palms together in anticipation. Her grin turned feral.  
  
Both Helen’s and Ephraim’s guns were torn out of their holders’ hands and aimed at their foreheads. Special Snowflake kept smiling as she stepped closer to Wilbur. She squatted to meet his eyes. An innocent, almost childish glee was written on her face.    
  
“Tell me about the symbols, Whateley, and I’ll let them  _liiiive_.” The girl sang the last word. “You have your magical words to protect you, but they don’t have anything. Oh, I know you tried to teach her” she pointed at Helen with her thumb, “but she doesn’t have the voice to make it work, unlike you…”  
  
Wilbur coughed out some blood he had obviously held in his mouth before answering.  
  
“It’s a spell fer inter-dimensional travel, alright? An’…  an’ that symbol summons Nyar… the Crawlin’ Chaos.” He swallowed hard. “ ‘E makes it all work. I guess… ye ‘ave to be ‘is servant, like Nahab is…”  
  
The girl stood up to look at him from above.  
  
“I guessed as much.” She whispered. “I’ll be on my way, now. Thank you for cooperating... eventually.”  
  
She waved her hand at the scribbles. Plaster, bricks and wall-paper were instantly ground to bits. Ephraim winced. He imagined the girl doing the same to a living being. After all, muscle and bones and skin were not as tough…  
  
The girl walked to the demolished wall and jumped in the air but did not land. Instead, she gracefully rose above the ground. Guns and knives slowly descended on the floor when she flew out through the same hole in the wall Helen had entered the house.  
  
Helen rushed to Wilbur, almost tripping up on her skirts. Ephraim helped them get Wilbur back on his feet and into Helen’s apartment, which seemed to be unaffected by the attack if one did not count the missing windows.  
  
After several minutes, Pickman, Randolph, Herbert and Nuala joined them. The doctor took one look at Wilbur’s condition and hurriedly went downstairs to get his medical bag.  
  
“What the hell was that white witch?” Pickman exclaimed as he half-carried the princess to one of the chairs.  
  
“Such fury… “ Nuala shuddered. “There was nothing else in her mind but rage, every other emotion was pushed far back. Helen, I’m so glad you are alive!”  
  
Helen reached out to pat her niece’s face and smiled. A second later, she pounced on Nuala and pulled her into a tight and somewhat awkward embrace.   
  
Randolph began asking questions the second he got close enough for Wilbur to hear. He attempted a smile, only to hiss in pain. He still managed to say:  
  
“A massive drawer to the face more often than not beats a spell to the stomach, I tell ye.”  
  
The poet tsk-ed and tried to gently pry Wilbur’s mouth open.   
  
“You bit your tongue, didn’t you? Does your nose hurt?”  
  
“What the hell d’ye think yer doin’?”  
  
“Looks fine, no blood in the nostrils… Any broken… well, you’ve said you lack a skeleton, but you might have lost a tooth or two…”  
  
Herbert returned and shoved Randolph out of the way. Wilbur seemed grateful, at least until the doctor forced him to rinse his mouth with a gulp of saline solution, before inspecting the damage in a manner similar to a vet looking in a horse’s mouth. Wilbur made a strangled noise when Herbert unceremoniously tried to pull his tongue out.  
  
“Don’t whine!’ Herbert scolded. “There’s a reason I’m not a family physician.”   
  
“Yes, yer into corpses an’ chemicals.” Wilbur muttered as he rubbed his jaw.  
  
“True, but that’s not all.”  
  
Meanwhile, Pickman was pestering Ephraim. The artist wore nearly the same expression he had when he talked about his beloved ghouls.  
  
“Seriously, who the hell was the girl? It was a girl, wasn’t it?”  
  
Ephraim explained as much as he could, occasionally glancing at Wilbur, who added previously unknown (for Ephraim) details, such as the intruder’s inability to read a non-human mind and her spying of the apartment building and its residents for an unknown period of time.  
  
“She was very interested in the symbols Nahab left. Probably wanted to use them and track the old witch. Did you see how she reacted when I mentioned the Crawling Chaos?” Ephraim felt like he needed a drink, but the landlord in him was already mourning all the comforts he would have to deny himself until his house was fully repaired. “I bet she has beef with him too.”  
  
“An enemy of Nyarlathotep himself!...” Randolph gasped in horror. “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about, Eph?”  
  
“Apparently, yes; since I’m currently housing another enemy of his, and if you’re still alive without having any incredibly well-developed telekinetic abilities at your disposal, then surely that wom…”  
  
A squeaky voice interrupted the landlord’s tirade.  
  
“It’s not about abilities; it’s about choice.”  
  
“Who said that?” Ephraim barked and surveyed the circle of pale faces around him.  
  
“Get yourself a pair of glasses, moron.”  
  
Brown Jenkins had at some point managed to crawl through the Forest of Human Feet and Chair Legs, climb Small Table Mountain and balance itself upon Peak Jewelry Box. The human-faced rat waited until it had everybody’s attention, before obnoxiously scratching its ear with its hind leg.   
  
Pickman was the first to react.  
  
“Quick, give it some cheese to distract it while I go get my camera!” he tried to leave the room, only for Randolph to grab him by the sleeve and pull him back.  
  
Herbert’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. His right hand twitched, as if the doctor tried to get a better grip on an invisible scalpel.  
  
“Is this the familiar you told me about?”   
  
“I don’t know, how many rodents with tiny human faces do you think we have in this building?”  
  
“You know me, Eph; nothing can surprise me anymore.”  
  
Brown Jenkins shot them a dirty look before raising its voice to a fingernails-on-a-chalkboard level of annoying.   
  
“Okay, first of all – this.” The small furry creature coughed pretentiously. “You’re a bunch of unenlightened peasants and deserve to have this entire house brought down on your stupid heads, you ignorant wastes of air and space.”  
  
“Oh, no, an old hag an’ her rat are very very annoyed with us.” Wilbur rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Lemme play ye a sad song on the world’s smallest violin.”  
  
Brown Jenkins was decidedly unimpressed by the ‘concert’.  
  
“If a skinny girl almost made  _me_  eat a drawer, I wouldn’t be so quick to draw attention to myself.”  
  
Wilbur ignored the jab.  
  
” ’Ow’s Nahab?” he asked.  
  
The familiar clearly had not expected that kind of question.  
  
“She’s more than fine." It answered plainly. "We managed to find a stable thread in the space-time. She’s currently as safe as a witch of her caliber can be.”   
  
“Which ain’t a lot, if we ‘ave to be honest. An’ she’s not gittin’ any younger.”   
  
“She’s nearly three hundred years old.”  
  
Wilbur gave a low whistle. Brown Jenkins preened.   
  
“My mistress sent me here to inspect whatever havoc the White bitch has wreaked here. Overall, your precious little apartment building got off lightly.”  
  
Ephraim snorted.  
  
“Does your mistress have any idea how much her feud is going to cost me? The windows alone will drain my bank account, not to mention cleaning the debris, rebuilding almost five meters of wall, restoring the parquet, redecorating, refurnishing…  
  
“You have no idea what you just had to deal with.” The rat interrupted. “That girl? Her name is Carrie White; she’s one of Nyarlathotep’s avatars. Or will be, in any case. He had to do a lot of travelling to obtain her; imagine his anger when she managed to break out of her cage – and in the middle of the Court of the Daemon Sultan! The universe will never be the same, not after …”  
  
“Why are ye tellin’ us all these things?” Wilbur asked impatiently.  
  
Brown Jenkins shrugged its little shoulders and jumped off the table. Before anyone could make a move to stop it or step on it, the familiar had already reached the door, where it turned to look at the company one last time.  
  
“My mistress thinks that you deserve to know your enemy.” It said. “Also, try and make the White bitch bleed. A lot.  
  
With those parting words, Brown Jenkins slipped under the door.  
  
***  
  
 **May 27, 1934 14:11**  
  
“This is so odd.” Henry Armitage said for the fifth time that day. “Yesterday’s date fits with the date of the earthquakes and the date of your book’s appearance, but not with the others. It’s almost as if I have miscalculated; however, that simply does not happen. I know what I’m looking for; I know better than to make such ridiculous mistakes…”  
  
“So what are you trying to say?” Carrie was vexed. “Someone broke into your office and changed your notes and formulas? Redrew your star charts? Stole your lucky eraser?”  
  
The librarian ignored her in favor of the new schedule he had prepared.  
  
“This should be correct.” He muttered while doing some last minute calculations in a cheap notebook. “Yes, now we’re good to go…”  
  
“Oh  _puh-lease_!” Carrie threw up her hands in exasperation. “We know that Whateley summons Yob-Sodd… his father regularly! Remember his father? The eldritch abomination, as you like to call it, the one who wants to destroy all life and take over the planet? I for one am not going to wait and see what happens when that… that creature breaks through. So I say we kill the bastard and be done with it.”  
  
Armitage hummed before responding.  
  
“No use; Gytrash killed Whateley once, only for him to come back. We need a different tactic.  
  
Carrie rolled her eyes.  
  
“Then what do you suggest we do?”   
  
“I’ll let you know when I have a detailed plan of action. In the meantime, keep a low profile, would you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the tenants meet Carrie White, Carrie White meets Yog-Sothoth (kind of), Brown Jenkins dumps a bunch of vague info, and Keziah Mason/Nahab lives happily ever after (or does she?). Also, Randolph has written a boring book. The horror!
> 
> A curious bit of info - Helen's revolver is a Webley Bull Dog Pocket Revolver (cute, deadly and small enough to be carried in a garter), while Ephraim's pistol is a Colt M1911. In other words, I spent an hour picking guns for two characters in a crack fic where said guns will ultimately turn out to be useless.


	11. The Faulty Shoggoth

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors**  
  
Chapter 8: The Faulty Shoggoth  
  
May 26, 1934 06:03  
  
Khaa'r spent the short trip from Arkham to Innsmouth in the back seat of Julius Marsh's car, not bothering to strike up a conversation with his driver. The young man did not seem to mind, so he prattled on about his father's latest calculations and how they only needed twenty more years before everyone in Innsmouth had enough of the Deep Ones' blood inside their veins to be capable of 'taking to the water', as they called it.   
  
In other words - twenty more years worth of gold, fish and endless patience, that was what old Barnabas Marsh wanted, most likely in order to set aside some money for the runts to inherit after their town was finally abandoned for good. Khaa'r glared at the back of the boy's head - had these greedy little humans ever stopped to consider the efforts his people made to provide for them? And for what - several hundreds new Deep Ones at best, most of whom remained disappointingly short and weak even after their transformation; and don't even get him started on their unsightly fins!   
  
Khaa'r watched as the first rays of the rising sun set fire to the horizon. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of the Atlantic Ocean, whose glittering waters showed no hint of the tragedy that had befallen the beautiful underwater city, known to the local humans as the Devil's Reef. Khaa'r realized that he had sunk his nails into the leather cuisses on his thighs to stop his hands from shaking. He took a deep, calming breath - the traitor had been dealt with, the humans' government had been placated, the dead had been buried. He tried to focus on the pleasant smell of the sea and how he was going to spend at least several days swimming and fishing, if his duties permitted.  
  
This was shaping up to be a very shoddy millennium - first the Kanaky mess in the Pacific Ocean in 1838, then the embarrassing 1925, when the great lord Cthulhu had essentially talked  _and_  walked in his sleep, then the commotion in Innsmouth in 1928; and now he was stuck on dry land and forced to deal with Wilbur Whateley's shenanigans, while the R'lyeh Council threatened to make yet another half-baked decision that would complicate Khaa'r's life even further, like actually declaring war on the human race.   
  
There were so many problems, and so little of them could be solved with a single well-aimed dagger...  
  
The car stopped in front of the old building of the Esoteric Order of Dagon, which now looked somewhat better than during his last visit to Innsmouth - the walls and the decorative pillars in the front were whitewashed, the previously broken windows were boarded shut and painted as well, the old double-leaf door was replaced with a new one.    
  
It was all very odd, especially in the light of the government's raid six years ago, when many buildings had been burned down and dynamited and many people - some of which part-Deep Ones - had been arrested and most likely tortured and killed. When Khaa'r had first arrived in town to inspect the damage, he had almost immediately decided that Innsmouth would probably never recover. Needless to say, he was glad to be wrong.  
  
Khaa'r strode right through the new door, ignoring the two sleepy half-breeds that were probably supposed to be guards. The main hall of the Order was well lit - somebody had broken out the fancy candelabras - and very clean; the pews were practically shining. He found his mother sitting in the first row next to Mrs. Marsh, who was enthusiastically telling the Deep One about her youngest grand-daughter's accomplishments.   
  
"My little lamb is such a keen reader, and she's barely five years old!... Oh, and here's your own darling, marching towards us like the brave soldier he is."  
  
Khaa'r bowed stiffly before the two very different women and murmured a greeting.   
  
Normally, he would have forced the impertinent idiot to eat their own thumbs for calling him a 'darling'. However, Mrs. Marsh was one of  _those_  old ladies - she could both insult and intimidate you while offering you a cup of tea. The way she twirled her walking cane and the remnants of red in her fluffy white hair reminded Khaa'r of a barbarian princess he had met in Hyperborea once who had almost beheaded him with a battle axe.   
  
O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa, The One Whose Face Is Indescribable, was a tall, stocky Deep One - a mother of ten children, nine of which were daughters and as such capable of continuing the bloodline. Her smooth gray skin and long limbs spoke of her dolphin ancestry, while her long fins and yellow eyes were inherited from her own renowned beauty of a mother. O'ghihimmayvoikhaa'ra, The One Who Dances With The Dolphins, was said to have been an almost exact copy of Mother Hydra, right down to the almost impractically long fins on her head, neck, shoulders and back. She had also chosen, to her family's great shock and disappointment, to mate with dolphins and raise the children from these strange unions all alone.   
  
Mrs. Marsh had the decency to leave quickly after the obligatory small talk - yes, madam, I am fine; no, madam, I have not killed the Whateley boy yet (a polite laugh was in order); yes, madam, I eat enough vegetables; Ephraim Waite sends you his greetings as well; good bye, madam.  
  
His mother waited for the old lady to close the door before motioning to Khaa'r to sit down next to her. She looked even more majestic than he remembered, with her ramrod straight spine and effortless elegance. She wore several pounds' worth of intricate jewelry, as befitting a noblewoman of her rank - mostly in the form of dozens of necklaces, chains and bracelets, as well as a diadem that was richly decorated with pearls (one for each child and grandchild that shared her bloodline) and emeralds (a symbol of royalty).  
  
"You look weary, child." O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa spoke quietly in dialectal Aklo. "This troubles me more than you can imagine. " Khaa'r allowed her to stroke his face with the back of her hand. "After all, an assassin is supposed to be ruthless - both to those around him and to himself."     
  
"Mother, while I am proud to inform you that my mission is so far a success, you will need to report my findings to the Council as soon as possible."   
  
"Tell me what you have found, child, and I shall decide whether the rest of Council need to be informed."  
  
Khaa'r suppressed a tired sigh. His mother had been adamant that humanity should pay dearly for the Devil's Reef. After all, one of the destroyed palaces had been hers.     
  
"First of all, the High Priests' visions were correct - something has indeed happened to this universe. I do not know how or why, but Yog-Sothoth has rearranged time and space..."  
  
"Impossible. Yog-Sothoth is  _locked out_. Everyone knows that."  
  
"... and not only has he managed to do so once, which resulted in the resurrection of his half-human spawn, but he continues to do so, through the assistance of that same creature."  
  
O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa glared at him, her fins moving gracefully in tune with her breathing.  
  
"Wilbur Whateley, the one who threw  _a book_  at your head and caused you to briefly lose consciousness?  _That_  Wilbur Whateley?"  
  
"The one and only."  
  
"How can you speak of that with such ease? You, who have slain so many great warriors and emperors and slit the throats of powerful wizards! You, the Dolphin!" She gradually lowered her voice to an angry whisper. Some mothers liked to yell at their disobedient children. O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa preferred to hiss. "The Council is considering reintroducing dolphins as potential mates for our race again, after one hundred thousand years, all because of your accomplishmentsﾅ"  
  
Khaa'r remembered that one time when he had assassinated the royal family of an ancient coastal city by infiltrating the king's harem. It had been far from glorious, even though it made for a good story to tell after a couple of drinks.   
  
In fact, the same could be said for most of his missions. There was nothing glorious about war, that much he knew from his rather limited experience in Atlantis; assassinations, however, were downright unpleasant and often disturbing.   
  
Accomplishments, right...  
  
"Please understand, mother, this Wilbur Whateley seems to be in the center of it all..."  
  
She listened intently as he told her everything he knew.   
  
He told her that Wilbur's resurrection, inexplicable as it was, had somehow altered the fates of several individuals: a human physician had been torn to pieces, only to reappear a decade later alive and well, albeit stitched up; a Dreamer and a ghoul had somehow been summoned from a distant planet and from the Dreamlands to help Wilbur reach Earth safely, even though Yog-Sothoth was not supposed to be capable of summoning anybody to do his bidding; that Ephraim Waite had been shot dead, only to wake up on the next morning in his bed while his killer had committed suicide out of fear of losing his own mind.  
  
He told her that Wilbur would summon Yog-Sothoth at certain dates, which would inevitably result in small earthquakes, very similar to the tremors that had worried the hills near his childhood home in Dunwich.   
  
He told her about the diary Wilbur had kept for the better part of his life, in which Yog-Sothoth's plans for total destruction of all life on Earth were strongly hinted at, and the calculations and charts that clearly marked several days as astrologically similar to the date of Wilbur's resurrection - all of which he had found in the cabinet of the same librarian who had banished Wilbur's monstrous twin from this world.   
  
"And this is what worries me the most - I have compared these dates with the dates of the Shoggoths' recent riots. Have you noticed how rebellious they have been for the past year and a half? The dates match. Whatever Wilbur is doing, or rather, whatever Yog-Sothoth is doing, the Shoggoths can sense it. And it drives them insane every time it happens."   
  
His mother began playing with one of her bracelets - a nervous habit. She stared straight ahead, seeing neither the currently empty altar in front of the pews nor the cracked wall behind it.  
  
"We wasted four Shoggoths already, and lost twenty soldiers." O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa finally said. "They were good soldiers, too, not moronic half-breeds like the ones we get from this pathetic little pile of bricks."  
  
Khaa'r frowned at the jab to Innsmouth, but nodded along.   
  
"When did you discover this connection, between the Spawn and the Shoggoths' revolts, I mean?"  
  
"Less than two weeks ago. But only because of the librarian - he did all the calculations, all I had to do was read his notes thoroughly."  
  
"The Shoggoths are becoming more and more aggressive. You must ask the Spawn to stop summoning Yog-Sothoth until we have found a way to completely subdue them."  
  
Khaa'r snorted.   
  
"Of course; and afterwards, I will ask him to let me braid his hair. That will surely strengthen our friendship."    
  
O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa gave her only son a dirty look.  
  
"You spared his life. You gave him the books he tried to steal from this wretched temple..."  
  
"Will you believe me, mother, if I tell you that Wilbur always pays me back in the same coin - a truth for a truth, and a lie for a lie? He is not stupid; he knows that I'm not supposed to be trusted. After all, what is a Deep One doing so far away from the ocean and among the humans?"  
  
"How did you explain your presence, anyway?"  
  
"I told him I was on a research mission."  
  
"You told him the truth?!"  
  
"And he told me that he summons Yog-Sothoth because he is a faithful son."  
  
Khaa'r cracked his knuckles - that was his own nervous habit.  
  
"The truth is a small plant, mother, yet its roots run deep and unseen."  
  
***   
  
 **May 30, 1934 08:31**  
  
Henry Armitage waited for Carrie to sit on one of the chairs across his desk, before pushing the tidy pile of books towards her. She cocked her head to one side and the books immediately flew to her, each of them adjusting its position in the air as she read their titles.  
  
" _'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde'_ , by Robert Louis Stevenson." she read aloud. " _'The Picture of Dorian Gray'_ , by Oscar Wilde.  _'From A Buick 8'_ , by Stephen King - hey, he wrote my book as well.  _'Rose Madder'_ , again by Stephen King..."   
  
"All of these books appeared in the archive on May 26th - needless to say, it wasn't me who accepted them and wrote their titles down in the catalogue." Armitage scratched his eyebrow as he watched Carrie place the books back on the desk. "I guess Yog-Sothoth doesn't find it worrying that he's giving us clues as to who exactly he's letting in..."  
  
Carrie bit her lower lip. She was even paler than usual and looked more tired than ever.   
  
"But there are so many of them!" she blurted out. "The last time you got new books, it was only mine and Adam's."  
  
"I tried to read them as quickly as possible, skipping pages and scanning the lines for certain words..."  
  
"Come on, just say it - you were looking for the villains."   
  
"And are they unpleasant! Two psychotic murderers - one has a dual personality and the other is a corrupt policeman. An immoral immortal, whose eternal youth and beauty depend on a cursed painting. And finally, an eldritch abomination that is shaped like a car, but also acts like a portal to another world."  
  
They both stared at the pile of books, as if it might do an interesting trick. Carrie ran her fingers through her long hair. Armitage reached for his glass of water.    
  
"So now I have to try and find these... villains, right? And kill them? How does one even ki... Wait, a car? There's a book about  _an evil alien car_?"   
  
"We'll worry about the newcomers later."   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Right now, you have to go and find Whateley. And kill  _him_."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Who knows what other horror his father might unleash on this planet from some accursed alternate universe..."  
  
Carrie looked at the librarian as if she was seeing him for the first time, before grinning maniacally at his grim determination.  
  
"I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking. Consider it done!"  
  
***  
  
 **May 26, 1934 09:36**  
  
O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa gave Khaa'r a new quiver - one that was small enough to be attached comfortably to his thigh. It was divided into twelve sections, each of them containing a crossbow arrow. He pulled one of them out for closer inspection and the sharp sour stench of poison filled his nostrils. The arrow's tip shone in many different oily colors, like a stagnant puddle of water.    
  
"A single arrow should be enough to bring down an entire Shoggoth." His mother told him. "One drop of Atlach-Nacha's spit can dissolve a whale carcass in less than an hour."  
  
"I thought our reserves were running out."  
  
"I do not think that twelve drops are that much of a waste, compared to the damage a rogue Shoggoth can cause."  
  
"Why do we not use Yig's poison? At least he is easier to reach."  
  
"We are still testing its properties and so far his poison's effects have not been found satisfactory."  
  
Khaa'r put the arrow back in the quiver and met O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa's eyes.  
  
"What do you need me to do, mother?"  
  
"Ephraim Waite and his... coven proved themselves to be incapable of protecting the pit of Shoggoths near that human village... oh, its name escapes me at the moment."  
  
"Chesuncook."  
  
"Yes, right. Most of the coven's leaders were murdered last year, were they not?"  
  
"Ephraim speculates that the magical circle around the pit had been imperfect."  
  
"Which only serves to prove how unprepared they all are, even for such a simple task. Not to mention that this particular Shoggoth is defective beyond hope - it is capable neither of breeding nor of growing..."  
  
"And yet it survives on remarkably little nutrition and, as far as I know, has not reacted at all to Yog-Sothoth's summonings. Now that there is nothing left of the coven, Ephraim visits the pit on a weekly basis and has yet to complain."  
  
"What did I tell you - defective. Which is why the Council has decided to reduce the number of Shoggoths that are at our disposal."  
  
"Downsizing? When the Devil's Reef needs to be rebuilt?"  
  
O'ghihiriminidrarazyoa stroke Khaa'r's face again and sighed.   
  
The Deep Ones had to choose between two evils - either to rebuild the Devil's Reef and risk a full-scale Shoggoth rebellion, or let the ocean reclaim the ruins that once were a beautiful city and remain in relative safety.  
  
"My child, your only concern now is the Shoggoth in Chesuncook. Think of it as mercy kill, if that helps..."  
  
***  
  
 **May 27, 1934 11:17**  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Keziah Mason, also known as Nahab the dimension-hopping witch, stopped to catch her breath. The entrance of the Chesuncook sanctuary had not been difficult to locate (after all, how many ominous-looking caves were located near the village?), but it was the six thousand steps leading to the underground temple that did a number on her tired, aging body. Nahab allowed herself to rest for an hour as her senses slowly grew accustomed to the darkness, to the overwhelming stench of mould and corpses and, last but not least, to the nightmarish sounds that came from the pit in the center of the cavern.  
  
The light from her electric torch helped her trace the carved stones that marked the magical circle of protection around the pit. Nahab smirked at the dead wizards' insolence - the circle's sole purpose was to keep the monster inside the pit, rather than protect the spellcasters from outer attacks as well. She imagined the ease with which Carrie White had slaughtered them, one by one, and then dragged the bloody remains to the outskirts of the forest, where they were sure to be discovered soon.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The monster moaned from the pit, as if asking who dared to disturb its slumber.  Nahab's smirk grew wider. She reached inside her large handbag with her free hand and after a while pulled out a small crystal bottle that was filled to the brim with light pink syrup. It was an honest-to-goodness love potion - oh, how ridiculous those words sounded to an experienced witch like her! - and its components were so rare and so precious that she had been forced to visit the only planet in the universe where these potions were not only considered nothing special, but were treated as a type of herbal tea. The fact that this planet had been destroyed several million years ago by a black hole did not bother Nahab in the slightest.   
  
The old witch proceeded to extract from the depths of her handbag a clean white handkerchief, which she unfolded with great care. A single blonde hair laid in its folds.   
Nahab's grin turned sinister. Brown Jenkins, ever the crafty little furball, had managed to snatch the hair from Ephraim Waite's pillow during its last visit to the apartment building, right after Carrie White had finished trashing the place.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Shoggoths were incapable of feeling neither love nor lust - their only urge was to kill and destroy. Annihilation was their passion. Only an utter fool would try and order around these brainless lumps of mutating slime without constantly being on the look-out for signs of rebellion.    
  
Nahab unplugged the bottle and put the hair in the thick liquid. She watched as it dissolved and caused the color to change from pink to peach.  
  
A single drop of this potion was sufficient to make anyone fall desperately in love with Ephraim Waite.   
  
And annihilation was the Shoggoths' only passion.  
  
Nahab walked to the edge of the pit and whistled to attract the Shoggoth's attention. While it struggled to climb up and properly inspect its visitor, she poured the bottle's contents on the creature's massive shape and watched in delight as the Shoggoth too changed its colour - from pitch black to transparent gray.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Khaa'r's mom and learn more about his family, the Deep Ones' society and the Shoggoths. In other words, you're supposed to care about my unlikable OCs. 
> 
> Also - Armitage is worried, Carrie is homicidal and happy, Nahab is going to have her revenge, and a Shoggoth falls in love!
> 
> EDIT: Did you notice that Khaa'r's mom's name could be translated as "What's-Her-Face"? Because I just did. :D


	12. Going Places

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 9: Going Places  
  
June 1 1934 07:30**  
  
The small coffee table was covered with sheets of paper that were meticulously filled with calculations, angles and notes. The entirety of the text was written in several nearly unbreakable ciphers, with the author frequently switching from one code to another, sometimes in the middle of the sentence. There was no sign of punctuation, capital letters or paragraphs. The handwriting was even, with narrow lines and a distinct lack of ink smudges. Two enormous maps, presumably of Earth and of the constellations, hung from the wall directly opposite the table. The maps were hand-drawn with black and red ink on several pieces of parchment that were carefully sewn together and attached to long wooden rollers.  
  
Wilbur Whateley went through his notes one last time, checking for errors and oversights.   
  
There were none.   
  
He stretched luxuriously on the sofa and yawned. This had been a long, productive night – his favorite kind of night, actually. His tail-mouth yawned too, sticking out its serpentine tongue to taste the air.   
  
However, sleep had to wait. Wilbur made his way to the kitchen and helped himself to some milk and cold toast, chewing slowly with his facial mouth – he was not very hungry, but the food would keep his body awake while it struggled to process it.   
  
After the meal, Wilbur methodically put away all his notes, except for a single doodle that was supposed to be a map of the Northwestern states. He circled a small area in Maine that, while scarcely inhabited and boring, was quite special in the occult sense of the word. His fingers hovered over the jagged scribbles that represented the forests near the village of Chesuncook.   
  
He had to admit – the ancient sorcerers could not have picked a better place for a proper Shoggoths’ pit. Those forests were like a safe haven – the local ley lines had fortified the region, turning it into a stronghold of sorts against most magical influences.  
  
Wilbur naturally reasoned that, should the stronghold fall, so would the kingdom.  
  
Furthermore, if his calculations were correct, the forests were basically an occult version of the Thermopylae – the continuous presence of a dozen skilled wizards would use up the area’s natural potential, thus actively negating the effects of other magic.   
  
That certainly explained Ephraim Waite’s actions – the frequent trips to Chesuncook, the insane amount of money he spent during these travels, perhaps even the drinking habit. He was not simply mourning his brethren from the witch coven, who had been brutally (not to mention mysteriously) murdered last year. He was also worried that someone might notice the power vacuum and rush in to fill it.  
  
Wilbur spent the rest of the morning preparing what his grandfather called ‘Philosopher’s Soup’ – a concoction that transformed wood and metal into almost pure gold. Noah Whateley had been quick to warn the child to never, ever divulge the list of ingredients or the method of preparation to anybody. Therefore, Wilbur knew the recipe by heart. It was probably the only detail of his childhood that he had not mentioned in his journal.  
  
“Yer papa gave me this knaowledge when ‘e married yer mam. Kinda like a weddin’ gift, I think.” His grandfather had said with a slight smile. “Naow listen caref’lly, Willy. Only turn intuh gold things ye can easily pass fer bein’ made of gold in the first place. Carve coins from wood an’ tell people they be doubloons. Spoons, forks, buttons, pins, jewelry are also easy ta explain…”  
  
By noon, the small apartment reeked of chemicals and smoke, one of the most intricate magical circles imaginable were drawn around the kitchen table, and every piece of cutlery and most of the plates were turned into shiny, shiny gold.  
  
***  
  
 **June 1 1934 15:15**  
  
Ephraim did not appreciate being woken up from his afternoon nap. It was one of the things all tenants learned sooner or later, with the obvious exception of Pickman, who did not believe in sleep schedules, and Wilbur, who had trouble comprehending that other living creatures had needs as well.   
  
“Whut d’ya want, kid?” he growled, leaning on the door frame. “And if you say something about my pajamas, I swear…”  
  
“ ‘Ere.” A heavy bag was shoved into his arms. “This should be enough to fix everythin’ an’ even pay fer the fuel an’ the tires...”  
  
Ephraim almost dropped the bag on his feet, but managed to get a good grip of it in the last moment. He glared at Wilbur.   
  
“What is the meaning of this?”   
  
“A present. I’m gonna ask ye fer a favor.”  
  
“Aha. And what exactly is it that you…” Ephraim stared at the bag’s contents with a helpless expression on his face. He swallowed audibly. “Oh. Oh gods.”  
  
“D’ye like it? Made it myself.”  
  
“Y-you… this… but how?”  
  
“This is ‘ow we made a livin’ back in Dunwich.”  
  
Ephraim stared incredulously at Wilbur, who responded with a bright smile – the kind that almost split his face in half. Needless to say, it was a horrifying sight to behold.  
  
“So all those weird gold coins you insist to pay with…”  
  
“Alchemy.”  
  
The bag was filled to the brim with gold and quite heavy. It was more than enough – the windows and the entrance door had been replaced almost immediately after the telekinetic attack, but Nahab de Salem’s apartment was still uninhabitable. The rebuilding of the wall had squeezed every last dollar out of Edward Derby’s bank account...  
  
The landlord sighed in defeat.  
  
“Alright. What do you want?”  
  
Wilbur’s left ear twitched.  
  
“It’s ‘bout that underground temple ye visit ev’ry week or so.”  
  
“Oookay… What about it?”  
  
“I wanna go there. I wanna see the Shoggoth.”  
  
Ephraim pensively weighed up the bag again. Wilbur seemed to hold his breath.  
  
“No.” he finally snapped, and so did his tenant.  
  
“Please?”  
  
“Absolutely not. It’s dangerous.”  
  
“But I wannaaa!”  
  
“I said…”   
  
He tried to drop the bag on the floor but found himself unable to do so.   
  
Another sigh. He really needed the money.   
  
“Just tell me what you want with my Shoggoth.”  
  
“To see it. I’ve never seen one, ‘cept in pictures in books.”  
  
Ephraim stared at Wilbur’s goatish face, trying to find evidence of the undoubtedly nefarious plans the kid had. It was like trying to read… well, the face of a goat. They were mischievous-looking by nature.  
  
“I’m leaving for Chesuncook tomorrow at eight. Wait for me by the car.”  
  
“I’ll be there at seven.”  
  
***  
  
 **June 2 1934 05:03**  
  
Ephraim was unpleasantly surprised to find Wilbur waiting by the Packard at five o’clock the following morning.  
  
Carrie White, on the other hand, snickered as she made herself comfortable on the driver’s seat of the car she had stolen yesterday, after ‘overhearing’ the two wizards’ conversation. She followed them from a distance, not even bothering to hold the steering wheel and letting her mind do the driving.    
  
***  
  
 **June 2 1934 06:00**  
  
“… and that is how my roommate and I accidentally joined a cult.” Adam Frankenstein finished his story and beamed at his new friends, whose first response was stunned silence.  
  
“Amazing!” Pickman was the first to exclaim. “You got to meet the Wendigo? The real, honest-to-goodness Wendigo?” He made a strange ‘exploding head’ gesture with his hands. “I’m extremely jealous.”  
  
Randolph Carter gave the artist a warning look before focusing on the especially odd parts of this otherwise simply  _very_  odd tale. He decided to be extra careful – after all, this was an eight-foot-tall flesh golem he was about to question.  
  
Flesh golem, could anyone imagine that? What was next, flying carpets? He was thankful for the constant hubbub at the train station. The cacophony caused by the machines and the passengers obviously made the golem feel uneasy. That was good, because the golem’s presence… no, existence made Randolph feel uneasy too.  
  
“And it… uh, the Wind-Walker, as you call it, told you how to find Herbert and where to go to recover the last remaining Gnoph-keh?”  He asked, as if trying to wrap his head around the story.  
  
“It seems that the beast is so deep in hibernation, not even the Wind-Walker’s call would wake it up.” Adam explained and barely suppressed a flinch when a very noisy group of Italians walked past him.  
  
“And how did the Wind-Walker know how to find it, if he’s unable to reach it?” Randolph continued, this time with a slightly sharper tone of voice.  
  
“Mystical connection.”   
  
Princess Nuala nodded.   
  
“Ah, that explains everything.” She noticed the Dreamer’s stare. “Oh, please, Mr. Carter, if that poor creature is as lonely as Mr. Frankenstein describes it, then surely it’s justified in its desire for company.“  
  
Then the princess raised a delicate eyebrow at Randolph, as if to say ‘everything is alright’. As always, she looked terribly out of place – her skin and hair were almost white, with just the palest hints of peach and blonde, and her fey features were visible even underneath the short veil of her hat; just like her aunt Helen Vaughan, with her copper-red hair and poison-green eyes, Nuala’s natural colors caused her to stand out like a pearl in a pile of wooden beads.   
  
Randolph suppressed the urge to harrumph in defeat. He knew that he should trust Nuala’s empathic abilities, but this whole business was simply too strange, even for him.  
  
Herbert West appeared seemingly out of nowhere, elbowing his way through the crowd, which was getting thicker as the trains began to arrive. He almost crashed right into a plump middle-aged man, causing him to awkwardly jump aside, and forced an obviously newlywed couple to let go of each other’s hands by unceremoniously walking in between them. Herbert did not apologize to the first and hissed at the husband to have the common decency not to kick his suitcase. He had gone to exchange his and Adam’s second-class tickets for first-class ones.    
  
To say that the doctor was just annoyed would have been an understatement – he was not used to being surrounded by the hustle and bustle that was so typical for the living people, but unlike Adam Frankenstein, Herbert did not get nervous. Instead, he got angry.  
  
Nevertheless, Herbert allowed Nuala to embrace him tightly and even shook hands with Randolph and Pickman.  
  
“Okay everyone, show’s over, now go home.” He shoved Adam’s ticket in the golem’s gloved arm. “I’ll be back in a month. Make sure Ephraim doesn’t rent out my apartment while I’m gone. Eat your vegetables, try not to get killed, and keep those other creepers in check.”  
  
“Will do!” Pickman saluted.  
  
“I was talking to Randolph, you silly man. By all that is holy, he’s the only one who stands between the city’s complete devastation and Wilbur’s manias. And Helen’s urges. And Ephraim’s hobbies. And your appetites.”  
  
Pickman pouted.  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re still angry about that one corpse…”  
  
“My colleagues were still in the morgue when you started nibbling on the foot!”  
  
“Stop shouting, please!” Adam begged. “Everyone is staring. I hate it when they stare.”  
  
“When we return, I’ll introduce you to Wilbur.” Herbert promised. “He’s almost as tall as you are, sews his own clothes and even sleeps on a regular bed. You can exchange tips and complain to each other.”  
  
“Well, my roommate sews my clothes, because I am unable to thread a needle to save my own life.” Adam confessed innocently. “She’s very talented, you know.”  
  
“Your roommate is a woman?” Pickman was bewildered. “Ow!”  
  
Randolph had given him a discreet kick on the ankle.  
  
“She’s the one who stitched Doctor West back together.”  
  
Herbert, who had sensed where the conversation was heading, simply buried his face in his hands. The rest of the group paused to consider this brand new piece of information.  
  
“You and your roommate should definitely come to our place at some point.” Pickman suggested out of nowhere. “We’re, uh, having some renovations being done to the building, but when it’s over, there’ll be one tenantless apartment with two bedrooms. You’re going to love it there! We have a huge garden, and the landlord is a very patient man, if a bit sour.”  
  
Adam considered the invitation.   
  
“Why not?...”  
  
***  
  
Herbert was secretly grateful for his companion’s rather frightening appearance, because nobody dared to sit in their compartment. One look at the inhumanly tall, deathly pale creature was enough to scare away even the conductor, who chose to tap at the glass rather than march in and demand their tickets.  
  
Then again, the other passengers had not arranged for an accomplished empath like Princess Nuala to study Adam Frankenstein’s mind and ultimately deem the golem, as his neighbors called him, harmless and amicable. At least those were the exact words she had whispered in the doctor’s ear when she leaned to embrace him.  
  
They travelled with little luggage – two small leather suitcases for their clothes and a big wooden one for Herbert’s equipment, having decided to stock up on supplies and warm clothes on their way to lands beyond the Arctic Circle. Their journey was going to take them to Montreal in Canada, then to Toronto, Cochrane and finally to Moosoone and James Bay, where they would meet their guides – some of the Wind-Walker’s last faithful servants. They were going to take Adam and Herbert to their master, who would help them reach Ellesmere Island safely and, more importantly, fast.  
  
Adam had assured him that the whole trip would take less than a month, which prompted Herbert to take several weeks of unpaid leave at the morgue instead of quitting the very day he decided that yes, attempting to revive giant six-legged polar bears was his true calling. The advance payment of $50 000 might have played some part in Herbert’s decision, but so did the endless supply of fresh human corpses the morgue offered. It was difficult choice, but luckily he was able to keep both the money and his job.  
  
The two companions spent the rest of the day napping, eating sandwiches and conversing pleasantly, at least until Adam finally mentioned the name of his roommate.  
  
***  
  
 **June 2 1934 03:00**  
  
Randolph Carter sat heavily on the last one of the seventy steps that led to the cavern of flame. The familiar glow and warmth enveloped him like a blanket; he concentrated on his breathing, allowing himself to fall in somewhat deeper slumber. His body was lying in the soft bed back in the little apartment building on Saltonstall Street, while his mind was teetering on the edge between the Dreamlands and the Waking World. Currently, this was as far as he would allow himself to go – he missed Ilek-Vad terribly, but there were certain developments on Earth that required his immediate attention.  
  
Randolph ignored the distant silhouettes of the priests Nasht and Kaman-Thah, who patiently waited for him to put an end to his exile and fully cross over to the other side of the universe. There were other ways, of course – secret paths in the forest, forgotten valleys and lakes, deep underground tunnels  that were available to all, unlike the Gates of Dream through which only Dreamers could freely walk. Then again, Dreamers went wherever they pleased; in their dreams, they were free, and in this realm, they were powerful.  
  
The Dreamlands, this realm was called. Or at least Randolph called it so. It had many other names – Heaven, Wonderland, Higher Plane Of Existence, Nirvana, Parallel Universe, even Home.  In essence, it was to the Waking World what the soul was to the body. One could not, should not, would not exist without the other.   
  
He became aware of the sound of footsteps walking in his direction. A tall, slim man with dark-gray skin and glittering eyes, dressed in the traditional garb of the ancient pharaohs, sat gracefully next to him, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles.   
  
Randolph glanced at the priests, but they were nowhere to be seen. Unconsciously, he gulped.   
  
Nyarlathotep obviously enjoyed his distress, if his pleased smirk was any indication. When he spoke, his tone of voice and manner of speaking could give one the impression that he was addressing an old friend.  
  
“It has been a long time, Randolph Carter.”   
  
Randolph did not respond immediately. He tried to appear calm while scrambling to find a good answer – something short, bold and at the same time polite. In the end, he came up with:  
  
“For you, perhaps.”   
  
Nyarlathotep flicked his hand, causing the Dreamer to flinch. Instead of doing something awful and madness-inducing, however, the Crawling Chaos began scratching his wrist.   
  
“Stupid bracelets.” He muttered. “Always making me itchy.”   
  
“We all have to suffer for beauty.” Randolph blurted out, fully aware that the words coming out of his mouth had not even paused to say hi to his brain.   
  
Short, bold and polite as all hell.  
  
To his eternal astonishment, Nyarlathotep snorted, clearly amused by the sudden flash of wit. Apparently, one did not need to maintain their dignity when one happened to possess unlimited otherworldly powers.  
  
“Tell me about it. If only you knew the trouble I go through in order to be decent, as I like to call it…” He winked at Randolph. “I am talking about my masks, of course. My avatars.”  
  
The Dreamer did the math with admirable speed.  
  
“I met the girl not too long ago.” He bothered to inform the god. “From what I gathered, she is quite… sick in the head.”  
  
The Crawling Chaos rolled his kohl-laden eyes.  
  
“Oh, she used to be even worse. She was dead, too. Screamed her throat raw when I brought her back. I almost believed that she wanted to die again.”  
  
Randolph stared at him in horror. Nyarlathotep continued.  
  
“I am going to have so much fun with her when she finally breaks. You find her scary now? Just wait until I get a hold of her pretty face and the mutated brain behind it. I will turn her into a creature made of pure nightmare…”  
  
“You are an utter creep.”  
  
Nyarlathotep deigned to give the human a condescending look as he stood up.  
  
“I am her god.”  
  
The Dreamer jumped on his feet as well. He could feel the blood drumming in his temples and his stomach lurching with disgust and fear.  
  
“No wonder you enjoy the human form so much.” he spat, “It suits you well. The others of your kind don’t even pretend to understand or care about us. They might seem cruel, but at the very least they aren’t bullies.”   
  
Nyaralthotep looked down from his height, saying nothing when Randolph paused to take a breath.   
  
“You, on the other hand, are not much different from a nasty child that pulls off flies’ wings. You are nobody’s god. Oh, and before you mention your many worshippers – they only summon you out of stupidity and greed. And every time one of those idiots calls you, you obediently pop up like a clown from a box.” He laughed mirthlessly. “They aren’t even aware, how low their master sinks when he makes deals with them. A puppeteer, who is a puppet himself. Then again, maybe you enjoy getting your hands dirty. Maybe…”  
  
“Maybe you cannot even comprehend how merciful of a god I truly am.” Nyarlathotep interrupted, barely stifling a yawn. “Do I not grant wishes? Do I not bestow knowledge and power? Do I not offer freedom? There are countless races and beings across this universe and beyond that would be ecstatic if I offered them the opportunity to serve me.”  
  
“Wishes? Knowledge? Power? Freedom?” Randolph was appalled; there was a part of his brain that was screaming at the rest to shut up, but was shouted down early on. “All you  _offer_  is madness, uncertainty, lies and chaos. You pray on people’s dreams and hopes, twisting them for your own amusement.”  
  
“Amusement?” Nyarlathotep threw back his head and began to laugh, as if he had just heard the best joke ever. “Tell me, Randolph Carter, do you consider breathing, eating, sleeping a form of entertainment? Do you find them  _amusing_?”  
  
He shook his crowned head, chuckling.  
  
“Everything I do is but a reflection of my true nature. Everything I do, I do because I have no other choice. My worshippers, however…  They all come to me willingly, I will have you know. And so did you. To Yog-Sothoth.” The grin faded from the dark face and the smiling mouth turned into a cruel dry gash. “You should have let the runt die.”  
  
“Why?” Randolph demanded. “Too afraid of his father to go and kill him yourself?”  
  
Nyarlathotep gave him a look that clearly read ‘are you really that stupid or yes’.  
  
“There would be no point in getting my hands dirty. The runt will die sooner or later, and most likely from a very violent death. Yog-Sothoth will never be able to leave the Void. All these underhanded tricks that aim to destabilize the natural order imposed by Azathoth are wasted efforts. He can turn this universe into a patchwork quilt in his attempts to fit back in, but it will not change the fact that Yog-Sothoth is, in essence, this universe’s mirror image. And as such, he is not supposed to leave the mirror...”  
  
Randolph’s nose itched. He swiped at it with his sleeve, but the itch persisted. Then he heard a faint, familiar noise – a cat’s meow. He looked around but saw nothing.   
  
The Crawling Chaos continued his tirade against Yog-Sothoth.  
  
“And even if he were capable of reentering this universe… well, let us just say that there would be a place for everything then. And everything would be in its place. You would have peace and stability, Randolph Carter, whether you liked it or not. And you would have no choice in the matter. No free will. No freedom whatsoever. No… “    
  
Nyarlathotep realized that he was talking to an empty space.  
  
“He woke up.  _Again_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so in this chapter everyone goes to someplace else because of reasons. There is also alchemy, empathy, a shocking reveal, bad humor, drama, a lot of research concerning the Canadian railways in 1930s, some badass!Randolph Carter, some unflappable!Nyarlathotep, and in the end a random cat saves the day (well, not really).


	13. Showdown

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 10: Showdown  
  
June 2 1934 13:53**  
  
The Shoggoth was being extremely uncooperative.   
  
Khaa’r threw the last of the lamb chops he had brought from Innsmouth near the edge of the pit and aimed his crossbow, waiting for a slimy tentacle-like appendage to appear from the depths and grab the bait. No such luck – either the Shoggoth had already been fed, or the dumb creature could smell the poisonous arrows and knew what they meant (instant death via corrosion of the tissues).  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
“Shut up!” Khaa’r muttered.   
  
 _Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!_  
  
The Deep One shifted uncomfortably on the crude stone altar he was currently sitting upon. The cave was beginning to get on his nerves. The stench of rotting carcasses was nothing new to Khaa’r, the moist cold air was downright pleasant, and darkness had never been a problem for his kind, not after millennia spent in the deepest parts of the world's oceans. The circle, however…  
  
Its borders were carved deep into the unnaturally even floor of the cave – a memento from an age that was long gone and yet reviled still. The symbols used for imbibing the circle with power were exquisitely chiseled into numerous flat stone slabs, which were set in the ground inside the circle. The pit was situated in its center – a pitch black circle of foul odors and worse nightmares, about twenty feet wide and immeasurably deep. During the centuries, it had been used to contain many Shoggoths, regardless of whether they were as large as a whale or as small as a walrus.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Until about five hundred years ago, that is, when a small regiment of Deep Ones had escorted most of the Shoggoths out of their pits – there were, in fact, several places like this one scattered across the Americas – and into the oceans to be put to work on various construction sites.   
  
The creature in this particulate pit, however, had been abandoned for a very particular and very unusual reason. It was completely useless – unable to breed, incapable of growing, and unresponsive to orders. Many of the Deep Ones' wisest scholars had attempted to study the Shoggoth and even seek to 'repair' it, but their experiments had failed to produce any worthwhile results. Nobody could explain why the Elder Things had even allowed it to continue existing, so the Council decided to follow their example and let the creature be.   
  
So when a witch coven had set up a temple in the cave at the end of the nineteenth century, the Deep Ones had shown little concern over their or the Shoggoth’s fates. Needless to say, it had been a rather unpleasant surprise for them to learn that one Ephraim Waite from Innsmouth (meaning: one of  _their_  humans) had managed to turn the blob into a ritualistic centerpiece by somehow gaining control over its movement.   
  
In all likeness, hypnosis was involved, but the wizard refused to give any details to anyone.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
***  
 **June 2 1934 17:20**  
  
“We there yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“We there yet?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“…”  
  
“…”  
  
“How ‘bout now?”  
  
“Goddamn it, kid, no!”  
  
For the umpteenth time, Wilbur switched the hand holding the cage with the two live rabbits that were supposed to be the Shoggoth’s meal. One of the critters made a soft grunting noise to express its displeasure at having its cage rattled.   
  
Ephraim had bought the rabbits from a farm in New Hampshire, with whose owner he was on a first-name basis. Later, he explained that there were several other farms from which he obtained live animals for the coven – not just rabbits, but also chickens, turkeys, even lambs and small pigs. In the recent past, the members of the coven had chipped in for these purchases, but ever since the mass murder of seven of their brightest, the task of feeding the Shoggoth and ‘maintaining’ the cave had fallen solely on Ephraim’s shoulders. The others had chosen to go into hiding.  
  
The two companions took their time to hide the car among a thick grove of trees in the outskirts of the forest, close to the old logging road that got progressively worse with every mile. It was obvious that if it had not been for Ephraim’s regular trips, the road would have been quickly swallowed by vegetation.   
  
The path they walked on gradually disappeared, but Wilbur noticed the large white stones that were scattered among the trees to mark the way. There were still a couple of hours left before sundown, but the lush green crowns of the trees did not allow much light to pass through the leaves and branches, making the forest a dark, depressing place. The grass whispered underneath their feet, as if conspiring against them, and the bird songs’ cheerfulness sounded downright eerie.   
  
When they finally reached the cave’s entrance, Wilbur immediately decided that it looked terribly out-of-place – in fact, it reminded him of one of those prehistoric tombs in Britain Helen Vaughan had told him about, the ones that resembled an earth berm constructed entirely from impractically large stones. Yes, it was very imposing and even majestic with all the moss and bone-white jagged rocks, but the cave was obviously man-made and that disturbed the casual viewer even more than the malevolently twisted tree growing on the top of the whole ensemble.  
  
Ephraim took a large gulp from his travel bottle - it had been a very warm day. He proceeded to pour some water into his palm and splashed his face and neck with it.  
  
“Pretty impressive, huh?” he said offhandedly. “I know your family has a taste for simple stone altars under the starry sky, but this here is something you don’t see every day.”  
  
“Who built this?” Wilbur could not help but ask, choosing to ignore the man’s defensive tone. “It looks… fake.”  
  
“I think the oldest parts were made by the Elder Things – after all, they are the ones who created the Shoggoths in the first place. The location, the pit, the main chamber – that’s all them. You can find other caves like this one, if you know where to look, but this here is very well preserved.” Ephraim scratched his chin. “The Deep Ones took over after the Elder Things’ demise, but their only worthwhile additions are the stairs and some of the Aklo symbols. Hell, they hadn't even bothered to make a decent circle.”  
  
“An’ what did yer cult do after settlin’ here?”  
  
“We made this place  _sparkle_.”  
  
Wilbur placed the rabbits’ cage on the ground and moved to sit on the closest rock. He took a deep breath – the sweetly repugnant smells here reminded him of the woods near Dunwich. This served to reinforce his certainty that the land he was standing on offered much more possibilities than even Ephraim could imagine.  
  
“How so?”  
  
“Let’s just say that you won’t find many Shoggoths being used as living decorations during rituals.” Ephraim paused to go through the contents of his small backpack. “It’s just like show business, kid. Razzle-dazzle and first-rate sorcery.” He pulled out an electric torch and a switchblade. “It’s more or less compulsory for every coven leader worth his salt to appear capable of doing six impossible things before breakfast, all in the name of keeping the shee… people in line.”  
  
“But ye don’t  _have_  a coven anymore.” Wilbur pointed out oh-so-helpfully. “They ran away.”  
  
“Which is why I didn’t pack a ton of black candles, the traditional golden sickle and my ceremonial robes.”  
  
***  
  
Wilbur waited for Ephraim’s silhouette to be swallowed by the darkness as the wizard (and the rabbits) descended into the cave.   
  
If his calculations (and his gut feeling) were correct, everything was going to end today. And then the  _real fun_  would finally begin.  
  
He began unwinding his tail from his waist, slowly easing the sore appendage out from underneath his shirt. The once pliant muscles protested against the cruel treatment – they were out of practice, since Wilbur had not bothered to hide his tail since last winter. He wrapped it around himself in a circle and scrutinized the symbols that were written along its entire length in dark brown ink. No smudges here. Then he rolled up his sleeves and inspected the symbols on his arms. They were perfect.  
  
He was ready.  
  
Wilbur closed his eyes and began chanting. He seldom used  _this_  particular version of Yog-Sothoth’s summoning ritual. Everything he knew about magic, he had learned from his grandfather. But not this.  
  
He had been taught this by his mother.  
  
Wilbur’s vocal cords gradually relaxed and the chanting turned into a proper song that reverberated through reality and beyond. He was breathing through his tail-mouth; the rush of cool air into his second throat caused his tentacles to lightly squirm underneath the clothes.  
  
The ink on his hands and tail began boiling, burning through the skin, mixing with his green blood and slowly turning transparent, like drops of morning dew.  
  
Still no smudges.  
  
***  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The second he entered the main chamber, Ephraim knew something was terribly wrong. He could not quite put his finger on it, not yet. There was a subtle change in the air, a sharp sour smell that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
His first reaction was to inspect the magical circle. The stones were okay, but there were pieces of fresh red meat lying near the edge of the pit.   
  
Someone had been here not very long ago, and maybe they were still around.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The Shoggoth’s voice, shrill as it naturally was, now resembled a frenzied scream. It drove the rabbits insane – they began squealing, kicking and writhing, making it impossible for Ephraim to hold their cage any longer, so he put it on the cave’s floor.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
A single tentacle poked out the pit, followed by three more. They felt up the ground gently, as if studying its texture and temperature, before quivering violently and forming several rows of suckers. They latched onto the floor and pulled the rest of the Shoggoth up and out of the pit. The creature’s screams grew louder and louder during its climb, but it did not waver, not even for a second.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
A cluster of what appeared to be eyeballs glared at Ephraim, who shoved a fist into his mouth to suppress a shriek.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
His Shoggoth used to be black like tar, with hundreds of pearl-grey eyes used to shine like mindless stars.   
  
Now the light of the electric torch revealed a shambling, quivering shape whose color resembled that of rotting meat, and its eyes glowed in the darkness with a horrifying purpose.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Ephraim’s mouth was now drier than an empty bottle of gin. However, he did not break eye contact with the creature. He knew he could handle it. He had done so many times before. Hell, it was more or less a standard procedure – make the bed, drive to Maine, hypnotize the Shoggoth, kill the sacrificial animals…  
  
Besides, there was the magical circle, too - a perfect shape, carved skillfully into the rock and regularly reinforced by yours truly. He was safe. He could handle it.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The Shoggoth crawled towards him with what looked like deliberate slowness. It paused to study the symbols on the circle’s borders, before twitching -  _shrugging_  - and using its tentacles to uproot the stone slabs and throw them aside.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The air audibly crackled as the spells ceased working. Ephraim felt the energies drain out of the cave like water from a broken dam.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
A crossbow sang in the darkness and the cluster of eyes was pierced by a single arrow. The slimy flesh began sizzling.  
  
Several more eyeballs were formed near the wound, as if to inspect it. The Shoggoth’s whole body shivered as the flesh around the wound became black and fell off.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Never before had Ephraim been so glad to see a Deep One. Khaa’r had already reloaded his crossbow. He did not pause even for a second before firing again. The Shoggoth kept advancing though, taking care of its injury simply by shedding off the poisoned tissue.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
“Keep shooting, I’ll try to hold it off.”  
  
“How, exactly? It already took care of your circle.”  
  
“Trust me, I’ve done this before.”  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Ephraim waved at the Shoggoth to attract its full attention and mumbled a short chant to prepare his mind for the dive. He stared into its many eyes and focused all his mental energy on finding what could pass for the creature’s mind.   
  
The unpleasant, yet familiar feeling of wading through cold water swallowed him and dulled all other sensations. The Shoggoth’s consciousness was like a puddle – shallow, easy to navigate in, simple to study…  
  
He was surprised by a tidal wave of agony and hate that was crowned with the foam of obsession.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Khaa’r almost scratched himself with his own arrows while reloading. One, two, three, four, five… the monster was diminishing in size, but it was still large enough to crush and swallow them whole… seven, eight, nine… The cave’s floor was soon covered with lumps of decomposing goo.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Ephraim’s unblinking eyes were burning and itching as he searched for a single coherent thought in the Shoggoth’s mind, but found only one – an overwhelming desire to kill  _him_ , its master and caretaker. That revelation made his stomach churn. Ephraim’s breathing had altogether ceased and now he was on the verge of suffocation.   
  
A part of him, the one that remembered what it was like to be dead and buried in a basement, screamed at the rest to save his skin and not his pride.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
“I do not know what you are attempting to do, but it has absolutely no effect.”  
  
“Shut up, I almost…”  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Several protrusions that were neither tentacles nor hands reached towards Khaa’r, who managed to shoot one off before another limb tore the crossbow out of his grip. The Deep One took a couple of steps back, barely remembering to grab the wizard by the collar as he darted towards the six thousand steps that would lead them outside.   
  
Ephraim stumbled and accidentally kicked the rabbits' cage, breaking it open. The critters seized the chance and ran for their lives, because unlike the wizard, they did not have to prove anything to anybody.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_  
  
“Argh! I almost got it!”  
  
“You almost got torn to pieces. You’ll thank me later.”  
  
“No I won’t!”  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
***  
  
From her position among the trees’ branches, Carrie White watched and listened, mesmerized, as Wilbur Whateley’s singing slowly changed. There were two voices now, coming out of the same mouth. One of them belonged to a wizard who was currently fighting the natural order of the universe and seemed to be winning, if the faint ripples in the air around him were any indication.   
  
The other voice was the voice of a child calling for his father. She had heard it before, during the first time she had spied on Whateley’s ritual, but she had only heard it in her – or rather, in  _his_  – mind.  
  
Now that she had the chance to observe with her other five senses, rather than in the form of a disembodied consciousness, Carrie was finally able to recognize what was truly happening. She knew enough about these ‘magical circles’ to know that Whateley’s own tail currently served as one, and that it was quite powerful too, if the yucky symbols meant anything.   
  
To be entirely honest, everything Mr. Armitage had bothered to tell her could be summed up as 'the nastier it looks, the more dangerous it is'.  
  
Her mind crept up on Whateley just in time to taste the abrupt change in the energies that were seething in the small circle of flesh and blood. His body rapidly became semi-translucent, revealing hints of his unearthly internal organs where the skin was not covered by clothes, with numerous faintly glowing lines that were probably blood vessels or nerves.   
  
Carrie held her breath. She had never seen anything like this before, and yet there was something awfully familiar about it.   
  
It was the glow that ultimately tipped her off: the crack between the universes was being opened again; however, this time Whateley was not simply picking the lock.   
  
He was  _becoming_  the lock.   
  
Carrie decided it was time to end the charade once and for all. The drive from Massachusetts to Maine had been unspeakably boring, and so had been the flight above the tree tops – she had decided to follow after the two men, rather than hurry up and wait for them at the cave’s entrance.   
  
She practically twirled in Whateley’s field of vision, making sure that her silk coat reminded the viewer of an angel’s wings and that the knives floating around her head resembled a halo. She circled him once, studying her target’s strange new appearance with childish curiosity. Finally, she stopped right in front of him and clicked her heels like a soldier, despite levitating nearly two feet above the ground.  
  
Whateley’s eyes opened slowly as his chanting subsided – to her mild surprise, their irises had remained black. He sized her up and even dared to raise an unimpressed eyebrow.   
  
When he spoke, his voice sounded very,  _very_  odd, which really said something since Whateley’s voice was already unnaturally deep and resonant.   
  
 **Seriously?**  “Those boots, with that skirt?”  
  
The girl turned up her nose at him. Dressing up for the job was one of her more harmless quirks; talking to her victims – not so much, but the bastards she had to deal with needed to know exactly what was happening and why.  
  
“Don’t be jealous of my fantastic taste in clothing.”  
  
Whateley snorted lightly. His nonchalance was delightfully refreshing. She was going to enjoy cutting it out of his system.   
  
“Yeah, it’s  **fantastic**  alright…  **Very futuristic.**  I can see ye’ve brought yer own toys this time.”  
  
He was referring to the knives. She nodded.  
  
“Ah, straight to the point. We’ll reach an understanding quickly, then…”  
  
“Yer here to kill me.”  
  
“And you’re here to destroy all life on Earth.”  
  
So much for light-hearted banter. To Carrie’s eternal joy, Whateley’s right eye twitched.  
  
“Henry Armitage sent you. He tol’ ye ‘bout… the last time, didn’t ‘e?”  
  
Carrie hummed and did not answer. The knives began spinning slowly, as if their handles were being felt up by an invisible hand.  
  
She made a mental note that, regardless of what this ritual was really about, Whateley obviously could not move from the large rock, where he sat for nearly ten minutes now, cross-legged and weirder than ever.  
  
“Key and Gate, he tol’ ye everythin’… he prob’ly even let ye read my… my journal…”  
  
Carrie was not planning to answer, but there was something in Whateley’s eyes – was it helplessness, pain, embarrassment, or all three at once? – that hit far too close to home for her liking. Her mind still surrounded him, studying the festering energies, and the clearest image she got was one of her own blurry memories, about girls laughing, showers and… blood.   
  
She recoiled in displeasure, and so did her mind, like a person spotting a snake in the grass near their feet.  
  
“What journal?”  
  
Whateley glared at her, so Carrie tried to look as sincere as possible. Which she was.  
  
“The only books Mr. Armitage ever gave me were the ones  _you_  summoned into this universe, along with their  _characters_.”  
  
Whateley’s anger was quickly replaced with confusion. Apparently, he was equally willing to let that moment slide.  
  
“I… never intended to summon anythin’.”  
  
The knives paused inches away from his body.  
  
“Besides dear old Dad, you mean?” Carrie ground her teeth. “And a whole bunch of psychopaths whom I’ll have to track down and kill off later..." Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "I think I’ll leave the red-haired bitch for last - someone who actually cares for you, someone who's going to mourn... Don’t worry, I’ll let her know what you died trying to do, and that you brought this on yourself – after all, you summoned  _me_  here as well…”  
  
Whateley's startled laugh was like a slap to her face.  
  
“ _I_  summoned  _ye_?”   
  
Carrie blinked slowly, pursing her lips in distaste.  
  
“… Pardon?”  
  
“Yer the one  **who started this.**  
  
Her mouth hung slightly open for a second, before she remembered to close it with an audible gulp.  
  
“Explain.”  
  
Whateley shrugged. His tone was unnervingly patient and very, very familiar.  
  
“Yer the one  **Nyarlathotep chose for his new mask.**  Yer the one he took to  **the Court of Azathoth.**  Yer the one who startled  **Azathoth**  awake, yer the one who  **almost destroyed this universe** , yer the one who made it  **so unstable**. If it weren’t for ye, my father would’ve never been able to bring me back."  
  
The silence between them was about as comfortable as a bed of nails.   
  
“Yes, ye. Everythin’ that’s happened, everythin’ I’ve done, it’s all thanks to ye.  **You are the one who made all this possible.**  
  
Whateley gave her a brilliant smile and his long hair twisted and coiled like tentacles.   
  
"It’s a mess alright –  **this whole universe is a great big mess at the moment.**  My father doesn’t mind though. He’ll fix everythin’, one way or anoth...”  
  
One in the right shoulder, one in the right side of the chest, one in the left upper part of the abdomen, one in the left thigh, two under the collarbone. The knives struck as one, sinking deep into the flesh until only their hilts were visible.   
  
Green blood trickled out of Whateley's mouth when his thick lips turned upward into another beatific smile.  
  
 **I will put everything in order, little one.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not a happy camper while writing this. :(
> 
> ***  
> This chapter is very messy, very unpleasant, and very cliffhanger-y. Also, a lot of things suddenly made sense to me, but only after rereading the text. 
> 
> \- Why does Ephraim rent out rooms to all kinds of people? Because after the mass murder of his brethren, he suddenly had to spent a lot more money to keep the Shoggoth well-fed. 
> 
> \- Why hasn't Ephraim spoken to anyone about his coven? Because he was neither happy not proud with his coven's disbandment. 
> 
> \- Why are the Deep Ones so quick to give Khaa'r a whole bunch of dangerous arrows for just one Shoggoth? Because this particular Shoggoth, despite being classified as defective, was not destroyed by the Elder Things themselves, and the Deep Ones can't quite figure out why it was spared.
> 
> \- Is Wilbur going to be capable of 'taking over' the forests near Chesuncook without any special preparations? Of course not, he needs something extraordinary for the occasion. And boy, does he have a grand trick up his sleeve!
> 
> \- Why is Carrie such a bitch? Because she dedicates so much of her time to tracking down and murdering all kinds of nasty types, it's bound to rub off on her eventually.
> 
> \- Is Carrie wearing white because of symbolic reasons, and not just because of her name? Hell yes - after all, her mother, in all likeness, often talked about 'the angels of vengeance' to the poor girl.


	14. The End Of A Beginning

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 11: The End Of A Beginning**  
  
Carrie White landed slowly, craving for the stability of solid ground like never before. What she had just heard changed… well, everything.   
  
Talk about creating your own villain.   
  
She lifted her head and her eyes sought the small patches of blue summer sky that were visible through the branches. Not a single leaf was moving, and it seemed that the stench in the air – typical for these parts of the forest – was getting stronger and fouler.   
  
She was looking for a sign, but all she found was silence.  
  
Very well, then. She cracked her knuckles.  
  
Wilbur Whateley – and not just him, this time – watched Carrie’s every movement intently, even as his green blood was leaking out through the numerous stab wounds. Color seemed to drain from his flesh, too, leaving it deathly pale. The tips of his long coiling hair were downright transparent now, making his head look like a mutant jellyfish.  
  
Carrie glanced at Whateley’s tail. It was still wrapped around the creature in an almost perfect circle and the burnt symbols on its length were still weeping dew.   
  
“Can I speak with the man in charge in there?” The words left her mouth before she could think them over.   
  
Whateley opened his mouth and blood spilled out of there, more blood than it seemed possible for it to hold. When the entity possessing his body spoke, the sound produced was unlike anything else she had ever heard – it was simultaneously a human’s voice that offered threats and curses and a strange bird’s chirp that forebode death and ruin, it was the whisper of an hourglass and the sound of a mountain growing and the thunder of a frantic heart. It made the listener’s insides twist as it reached deep inside and tore up the mind’s protective layers, leaving it raw and exposed.   
  
 **Say what you need to say, little one. Now.**  
  
Carrie shook her head and frowned, tentatively reaching to rub her temples.  
  
“You’re not invited here.”  
  
 **Neither were you, and yet…**  
  
“I never wanted this.”  
  
 **No, but you were wanted. And you accepted that.**  
  
Carrie held her breath for several long seconds before letting it hiss out between her teeth. The knives were then slowly pulled out of Whateley’s body, one by one.   
  
His clothes were completely ruined. He was so lucky he would not have to wash them later.   
  
“Tell me, god, if that is what you truly are…”  
  
Whateley’s hair was completely transparent now. It seemed to merge with what was supposed to be the cranium. His eyes widened slightly.  
  
“What will happen when I cut off that slimy tail?”  
  
***  
  
Ephraim Waite and Khaa’r chose that exact moment to rush out of the cave like bats out of hell.   
  
The wizard almost tripped over his own feet, but somehow managed to maintain his balance and keep running. In his left hand, he was gripping an open switchblade that simply begged to have someone stab themselves on accident. The Deep One ran just as fast, constantly looking back to the darkness of the cave.    
  
“The Shoggoth! The Shoggoth is loose!” Ephraim screamed at Wilbur before he could fully process the scene that had developed during his brief absence.   
  
He stayed frozen in an odd pose – the legs appeared ready for take-off, but his back and neck were tense with confusion. His eyes widened with horror as the brain caught up with them, making the expression on the man’s pale, sweaty, slightly wrinkled face almost comical.   
  
Carrie shifted her gaze from the wizard to the Deep One just in time to catch Khaa’r’s dagger. The blade was thrown aside by her mind’s improved reflexes. Her own knives were immediately pointed at the new targets.   
  
Khaa’r pushed Ephraim aside, as if sensing what Carrie was planning to do next. The wizard did not need to be told twice and scuttled off. In his hurry, he walked so close to the girl that their shoulders touched. Luckily for him, she was far too focused on deciding how to gut the damned fish to be bothered by the proximity of a guy she had threatened not very long ago with his own gun…   
  
***  
  
Khaa’r felt her mind reach out   
  
(Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie)  
  
and envelop him like a giant invisible hand.  
  
Then, almost as if he was acting on a whim, Ephraim turned, fast as a striking snake, and drove the knife deep between the girl’s shoulder blades.   
  
The Deep One felt the telekinetic grip (carrie carrie ouch that hurt carrie) loosen for a second. Hope flashed through him, as well as sudden admiration for his landlord’s quick thinking. He reached to his belt for a new dagger. Maybe they actually had a chance of survival…  
  
***  
  
Carrie’s vision turned white as a searing pain ran through her spine. Her mind writhed like an agonizing animal and suddenly it was loose – the adrenaline rush pushing at the limits that were being imposed by the rational part of her brain and washing them away like a tidal wave.   
  
***  
  
(Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie Carrie)   
  
Khaa’r grunted in surprise (Carrie) as his breath (Carrie) was being pushed back into his lungs. The invisible hand (Carrie Carrie Carrie) returned and folded into a merciless fist (Carrie).  
  
(Carrie CARRIE CARRIE Carrie Carrie CARRIE Carrie CARRIE CARRIE Carrie Carrie CARRIE CARRIE Carrie)  
  
Then Khaa’r’s body collapsed in on itself. A short-lived series of crunching, slurping and ripping noises was heard when he was wrung like a towel, his bones breaking and his flesh being torn to shreds. The ground where he had stood just seconds ago was quickly covered with blood and gore.  
  
***  
  
“Khaa'r!”   
  
Wilbur’s scream made Ephraim jump. He turned his head just in time to see the kid’s skin revert to its original sallow color and solid state, before quickly becoming semi-transparent again. He knew better than to reach out and touch him, though. He opened his mouth to ask him just what the fuck he was doing, sitting there and bleeding like a pig and being weirder than ever…  
  
 **Kamog, you should run if you wish to survive.**  
  
This voice…   
  
Ephraim’s breath hitched.  
  
Oh, there was no mistaking this voice. One might be deaf and dumb and blind and dead and they would still hear it and recognize it. It was the voice you heard in a perfectly silent room. It was the voice that murmured in the darkness that reigned between light sleep and drowsy consciousness.   
  
It was the voice Wilbur had used once and only once, while drunk beyond belief, to imitate his otherworldly father.  
  
 **Run.**  
  
The wizard glanced at Carrie, who had fallen on her knees. The long blond hair covered her face like a veil, shimmering like silk with her every twitch and movement. The wound on her back was bleeding profusely and now there was a large red stain spreading on her coat. The knives floating in the air above the girl were all spinning in different directions, constantly slowing down and speeding up.   
  
No wonder the circle had ceased working… This forest was quite similar, in a strictly occult sense, to one of those fancy, tiny and very impractical coffee cups – one extra dash of the drink, one unplanned ritual was enough to fill it up and cause it to overflow.  
  
And Wilbur had smashed that proverbial cup in the face of sanity…  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Ephraim ran.    
  
***  
  
The Shoggoth crawled out of the cave slowly, like a triumphant king. Its grey flesh glistened slightly. The many eyes became clouded for a while as they adjusted to the light, but it did not stop dragging its massive body towards its previous master.  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
***  
  
Carrie just stood there, shivering. The smell of iron caused her mind to go numb as it attempted to block out the blood-soaked memories and shove them back in the forgotten corners of her subconscious; meanwhile, the pain in her back was trying to draw attention to the fact that she was now unable to move the lower part of her body.   
  
The mind shouted back at the pain to stuff it, they were going to deal with that later...  
  
***   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The Shoggoth slithered over Khaa’r’s remains, gobbling them up as it went.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The sound of Ephraim’s footsteps had disappeared, but the cave needed to be completely out of his sight.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Carrie was far too wrapped up in her own issues to notice the slimy mass that was headed towards her. Curiously enough, the Shoggoth seemed not to notice her as well – not a single one of its eyes was pointed at the girl. Instead, they were all focused in the direction Ephraim had run off in.  
  
Wilbur waited for the Shoggoth to draw near, until it towered over them like a tsunami of protoplasmic horror.   
  
 _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_   _Tekeli-li!_  
  
He briefly wondered if Carrie would have otherwise been able to fight it off. However, how could a single telekinetic, even one as accomplished as she had proved herself to be, get a good grip of something that constantly changed its shape and consistency?    
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
The loss of blood was beginning to affect him – he swayed a little, his body threatening to topple down any minute now…  
  
 _Tekeli-li!_  
  
Wilbur pronounced as clearly as he could, considering his current state, several words in Aklo and unwrapped his tail.  
  
***  
  
Wilbur opened his eyes.   
  
To be honest, he did not remember closing them.   
  
He sat up – his body felt heavy, yet oddly relaxed – and looked around.   
  
The reality he knew was torn up like the canvas of a furious painter. The Void laid, bare and endless, before his sight, its colors and smells and sounds nibbling at his inhuman mind. The forest had remained somewhere behind him, as far as he could tell – the faint images of rocks and trees seemed to glitter in his peripheral vision like a recent dream. He could probably turn around and go back to where he had come from.   
  
There was no sign of the Shoggoth anywhere. The unleashing of the circle’s energies had either relocated it at some other point in the space-time, or erased it from existence. He would have to ask Ephraim later – if the wizard could not remember the creature ever being a part of his life, it was the later. If not, he would have to ask his father about its exact location, just to be safe.  
  
Wilbur finally stood up on his feet, the long tail swishing behind him as he struggled to maintain balance. He had probably fainted after breaking the circle. He seemed to be okay, though. No blood, no wounds, no pain. His clothes were no longer damaged.  
  
As for Carrie White…  
  
She lay on the… let’s call it ‘ground’ for the sake of convenience. She appeared to be asleep, if the steady rise of her stomach was any indication, but seemed to be perfectly fine. There was not a speck of blood anywhere on her clothes.   
  
The Shoggoth was gone, but they were still alive. They had been taken care of. Something – some _one_  - needed them alive.  
  
Wilbur sighed and looked up at his father, who had been watching over him for a while now. He had never actually seen the avatar known as 'Umr at-Tawil, but there was no mistaking the poise and bearing of a creature that embodied an entire universe’s worth of space and time.   
  
“Did I do well?”  
  
Yog-Sothoth seemed to both emit light and refract it – It was a simultaneously an animal and a prism, a cloud of soap bubbles and a cluster of stars. There were tentacles, as far as Wilbur could see, and something that was supposed to be a crown, and something that looked like a cloak.  
  
 **You have exceeded all expectations.**  
  
These words were met with a derisive snort, rather than tears of joy and relief.    
  
“Yeah right; that’s impossible - yer all-knowin’, so how can I exceed...”  
  
Yog-Sothoth sighed, causing the Void to tremble like a disturbed puddle. Wilbur immediately straightened up.   
  
 **Just accept the compliment.**  
  
“Right, yes, sure.” Self-consciously, Wilbur scratched his neck. He allowed himself to smile. “But it worked, didn’t it? Everythin’ ye wanted to do, is now done, right?”  
  
Yog-Sothoth’s head seemed to nod, if the constantly moving swirls and lines of the ‘crown’ were any indication. A more imaginative observer than Wilbur would have mentally compared them to a cross between antlers and eyelashes.   
  
 **The Nug-Soth have been given a second chance to reclaim their planet from the Dholes’ reign. They shall be successful.**  
  
“Lemme guess – ye’ve sent Zkauba back in time to use ‘is knowledge from the future to prevent the Dholes’ invasion?”  
  
 **You can always ask Zkauba for a more detailed account. He is going to visit Earth soon, much to his personal displeasure.**  
  
“Huh. Why’s that? Visitin’ Earth, I mean… I get the displeasure part. Hell, havin’ Randolph simply livin’ next door is traumatic enough; can’t imagine sharin’ a body with ‘im.”  
  
 **The Nug-Soth have already sworn their allegiance to me, and so has Zkauba, who ultimately decided to use his connection with me for the betterment of his kind.**  
  
Yog-Sothoth’s form grew two new appendages from underneath the ‘cloak’ that were probably supposed to be hands, if the finger-like protrusions, the sharp knuckles and the shapely wrists meant anything. One of these hands reached out to stroke his son’s hair. Wilbur unconsciously leaned into the touch.  
  
 **You will travel to Greenland, where Zkauba is going to land on the night of the first full moon after the summer solstice. You will teach him how to properly open the door to the Void between the universes. Once he reaches proficiency, I will have two wizards to rely on. The more frequent my visits are, the more orderly this universe will become, until I control it almost as fully as I did before my exile.**  
  
“I know all that. Why are ye tellin’ me again?”  
  
 **It is fair for this small human to know what is happening.**    
  
Carrie gave up on feigning unconsciousness and sat up rigidly. Apparently, she had been awake for some time now. Her usual sour expression was replaced with a flawless poker face. The girl went a little cross-eyed while studying Yog-Sothoth’s form, but nevertheless managed to get up on her feet with very little sway.  
  
Wilbur coughed.   
  
“Speakin’ of which, why is  _she_  still alive?”  
  
 **I promised her a place in this universe. After all, she is the precedent that allowed me to set everything in motion.**    
  
“She tried to fillet me!”  
  
“Could you please not talk about me like I’m not here?”  
  
“That’s the problem, Miss Priss. Yet here, but yer not really supposed to be... partly ‘cause ye received a switchblade to the back.”  
  
“Says the freak that got turned into a novelty knife holder.”  
  
“Ye don’t get it, do ye? Yer not even supposed to  _exist_.”  
  
“You’re awfully mouthy for someone who ran to his dad after a seventeen-year-old girl made a pin-cushion out of him. “  
  
“And yer awfully bitchy fer someone who believes ‘erself to be the hero of this ridiculous story.”  
  
 **I can see that you are already getting along nicely.**  
  
Yog-Sothoth stretched out an arm to touch, or rather grab, since the fingers became suspiciously claw-like, Carrie, who jerked away like a startled cat.  
  
 **Miss Carrietta N. White. Tormenters eliminated, oppressors obliterated, bothersome bullies removed. Or so claims your business card. Little human, you are yet to comprehend that my goals are quite similar to yours. I too seek to rid this universe of disorder and chaos. Of course, my methods are far more sophisticated. You, on the other hand…**  
  
Yog-Sothoth’s pause was so meaningful it could make a river stop and think hard about the direction in which its life was going.  
  
 **I am offering you a fair trade.**  
  
Wilbur had had a bad feeling about this from the moment he saw the girl alive and well, even after tearing apart the reality underneath her feet. He tried to interrupt.   
  
“Dad…”  
  
Carrie White was a wild card – after all, she came from an alternate reality or something – and as such could not be trusted, and Yog-Sothoth should damn well know that.   
  
 **The safety of the planet you call Earth, in exchange for the safety of my Spawn.**  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Deal.” Carrie answered immediately. “Do you want to shake on it, or…”  
  
 **Not all of my kind are as touch-starved as the Crawling Chaos happens to be.**  
  
The girl opened her mouth to say something, but only managed to sigh. She jerked her head, as if trying to shake off a bad memory. Wilbur noticed that and a very unpleasant thought came unbidden to his mind.   
  
 **Here is something that would be useful for you to remember, little one. I allowed you to exist, because I want you to exist. The Crawling Chaos only brought you back to life because of his own needs and cravings. The Wind-Walker spared you out of curiosity. Sooner or later, each of them would have undone your existence.**  
  
Carrie nodded. Anybody else would have called her current demeanor ‘calm’, ‘tentative’ or even ‘humble’. Wilbur, however, was not fooled even for a second. If anything, he found it quite astonishing that someone’s entire appearance could be comparable to that of a melting snowflake while their eyes remained disquietingly similar to the eyes of a rabid dog.   
  
Yog-Sothoth, on the other hand, did not need to notice anything, because Yog-Sothoth knew all and saw all. Wilbur’s hair got ruffled for the last time.  
  
 **Remember to behave. I am watching your every move.**  
  
***  
  
He found Ephraim moping in the car, his sweaty head resting on the steering wheel. Wilbur could safely guess that the wizard was currently fighting the urge to head back to the cave and check for… what, exactly? Leftovers, perhaps. But whose?  
  
“Boo!”  
  
Ephraim squealed like a little girl. Wilbur allowed himself a quick grin as he flopped down in the front passenger seat. He did not close the door immediately – the car’s interior simply reeked of fear and guilt.   
  
“Before ye start askin’ stupid questions, here’s the rundown.” Wilbur placed a hand on Ephraim’s shoulder to stop him from shaking. “Yes, I’m alive; and so’s the psychotic bitch; but that’s okay ‘cause my father allowed ‘er to live…”  
  
“Your father…”  
  
“Yes, I summoned him; have been for more than a year now, actually, so that he’s capable of reachin’ inside this universe an’ rearrangin’ time an’ space.”  
  
“What the…”  
  
“How do ye think  _ye_  got resurrected, hmm?”   
  
An energetic shrug, which served to show that Ephraim had regained his composure.   
  
“For a second I thought that… that a lightning had stricken the ground. Then there was an earthquake. I tripped, but kept crawling.”  
  
“Yup, that’s my Pop alright.”  
  
Wilbur smiled before continuing:  
  
“If it makes ye feel any better, I myself only got resurrected ‘cause the psychotic bitch wrecked up the natural order or somethin’. By the way, turns out she’s from another universe, so the rules here don’t really apply to ‘er...”  
  
Ephraim stared at his tenant, his mouth hanging slightly open. Finally, he spoke up:  
  
“I told you she was a Special Snowflake.”  
  
“Tell me about it.”  
  
They sat in the not very comfortable silence that usually reigned between the scarred survivor and the living, breathing wretch who was supposed to lie dead somewhere in the forest.  
  
“You’re saying that the... the girl is alive?”  
  
“Yeah, but I don’t think she’ll bother us again. I mean, father promised to leave Earth alone just so she’d stop tryin’ to kill me, but lemme tell ye, she was pretty shaken up afterwards.” Wilbur thought about what he wanted to say next. “It’s like she wasn’t used to bein’ treated… nicely. Made me wonder what the Crawlin’ Chaos did to ‘er before she escaped.”  
  
Wilbur shoved his hands deep in his pockets.   
  
“Do you mind explaining something to me? If… your father agreed not to mess with this planet, what is he going to do instead?”  
  
Wilbur ignored him. He had found something in his previously empty pockets.   
  
It was a very small, very worn book, printed on cheap yellow paper.   
  
He ran a finger over the cover.   
  
“Apparently, I’m in for an audience with the King in Yellow.”  
  
***  
  
Khaa'r woke up with a scream that reverberated through the cave, creating an echo that bounced off the walls like a trapped bird.  
  
Darkness and damp air surrounded him with the familiarity of a mother's embrace. He curled up into a shivering ball. It took him the better part of an hour to finally get a grip of himself and stand up.  
  
The cave of the disbanded Chesuncook Witch Coven was empty, but the upturned stones and the rotting pieces of the Shoggoth's gelatinous flesh reminded him of what had happened earlier...   
  
(CARRIE CARRIE where's the gooey thing Carrie home)   
  
... the creature climbing out of the pit, no magical circle, wasted arrows, useless poison, frantic running, Wilbur not being himself, Ephraim stabbing the girl...  
  
(Carrie bye whateley Carrie Carrie home Carrie I'm going home carrie carrie carrie carrie carrie)  
  
... who was still alive.  
  
Khaa'r felt her thoughts slither out of his mind. She let him go unconsciously, not quite realizing that they had been connected at all. He could not explain where this certainty came from.  
  
Wilbur Whateley was alive - for some reason, the girl had let him live. Hopefully Ephraim Waite had managed to survive as well.   
  
And the Shoggoth...   
  
It was not here, and would probably never return if it could help it.   
  
Where was it then?   
  
Khaa'r realized that he did not want to leave the cave just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a lot of stuff happening - we have knives, daggers and switchblades, people are running, screaming, stabbing, talking, three different kinds of blood are being shed, reality is being torn apart, and sequel hooks are being thrown in all directions.


	15. Castling Long

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 12: Castling Long  
  
June 3, 1934 14:10**  
  
Helen Vaughan held both dresses up to herself, first the purple one, then the blue one, then the purple one again. She glared at the full length mirror, biting her lip in frustration.   
  
Choosing clothes was a task of immense difficulty – how was she supposed to choose just one dress when everything looked so good on her? And this shop offered so many excellent pieces of clothing – not just dresses, but also coats, skirts, blouses, even hats and bags. Helen considered herself lucky that it was located in Boston – otherwise she would have been tempted to stop by every other day, and her apartment would have been quickly filled with clothes she did not need but thought she simply must own.  
  
The modiste, a small dark-haired woman named Sonia, stood close by with several more gowns and a pin-cushion strapped to her wrist. She was entirely focused on the dresses in Helen’s hands, completely ignoring her regular client’s strange companions. Helen had thoughtfully warned them not to scare or insult the woman – otherwise her wardrobe would mourn her loss forever.   
  
“Ooh, this is pretty!” the blond youth cooed as he ran his hands down the silken skirts of a lovely white dress that was displayed in the shop's front window.   
  
“You should try it on, see if it fits you.” The shabbily dressed dark-haired man suggested innocently, while elbowing their much more elegant companion.   
  
He simply sighed and continued flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine.   
  
“Dorian, stop fondling the mannequin. Edward, behave.”   
  
The youth chuckled. His laughter was simultaneously polite and nasty, like the default facial expression of a snobby rich lady.  
  
“Well, it’s not like he can fondle  _you_ , Henry. Little Dorie doesn't wish to risk Hell’s wrath.” The dark-haired man said with a sneer and was promptly slapped on the head with the rolled-up magazine.  
  
“It’s barely two in the afternoon, Edward. Don’t be so crass in broad daylight.”  
  
The two men seemed to be at least ten years Dorian’s senior, despite being about two inches shorter, and could not look more different if they tried. The shabby one, Edward, seemed to only wear clothes that had been thrown away by their previous owners, including a ratty pair or boots and a top hat that could only be described as ill-bred. The other man, however, was everything a 19th-century dandy aspired to be, down to the elaborately knotted cravat. His goatee and neatly trimmed whiskers, in combination with his carefully combed chestnut-brown hair, provided a sharp contrast to both Dorian’s smooth, lily-white skin and angelic blonde curls and to Edward’s unkempt hair and slightly wrinkled, unpleasant face.   
  
Helen pursed her lips. She knew better than to involve Edward Hyde in a matter as delicate as women’s fashion was; and asking for Dorian Gray and Lord Henry Wotton's opinions was a bit like asking for cooking advice from a pair of spoiled lap dogs.   
  
She turned to her  _other_  companion, who knew a thing or two on the subject, despite having the appearance of an anemic elderly gentleman and sporting a rather old-fashioned long white moustache.  
  
“What do you think, Your Excellency? Lilac or aqua? Aqua or lilac?”   
  
“That is the question, milady.”   
  
Count Dracula gave her one of his rare smiles. His unnaturally long canines glistened in the shop’s artificial lights as his lips seemed to flood with color.  
  
“Perhaps you should try olive instead.” His Eastern European accent stood out in stark contrast to the pure British accent of the other three men.   
  
“Olive? With my red hair and green eyes?” Helen made a face. “Ground-breaking.”  
  
The Count pouted. It was obvious, however, that he was not even a little bit upset. Ever since their first meeting in London, when Helen had had the unique opportunity to be present during the vampire’s rise from a dust-filled coffin, she had admired his nonchalant demeanor – a surefire sign of the power he wielded.   
  
“Aqua it is, then.”  
  
Helen was not convinced yet, though. She had never seen any of Dracula’s three (air-headed and thick-ankled, in her opinion) brides wear aqua.   
  
“You’re thinking of the shoes I bought this morning, aren’t you?”  
  
“The white pair with the turquoise buckles?” Dracula raised a mocking (and very malevolent, come to think of it) eyebrow. “ However did you guess?”  
  
“I only got them because they would match this adorable purse I own but have never used...”   
  
“Ah, yes, this is familiar. My brides practically  _hoard_  women’s accessories…”   
  
“I was planning to wear them along with this marvelous dress I bought from New York last week. It appears to be white, but it’s actually a really really light shade of green, like glass of milk with a drop of…”   
  
“… Mint extract. Face it, milady – you are  _destined_  to wear green.”   
  
“Eh, I guess you’re right.”   
  
Helen handed her final choice – the aqua dress - to Sonia to wrap it up.   
  
“And now, the hat…”  
  
Dracula nodded.  
  
“The finishing touch of the whole ensemble.”    
  
Overhearing their conversation and knowing well how picky Helen could be when it came to her hats, Hyde groaned. It seemed that he was stuck in the corner with Dorian and Henry, who were currently discussing the merits of silk sleep wear – apparently, Dorian had decided that he absolutely needed a new set of pajamas.  
  
***  
  
Helen half-wished they did not attract such attention while walking on the street, but this was far too entertaining for her not to enjoy. She had almost forgotten how nice it felt to have several men wrapped around her finger, entranced by her charm and eager to fulfill her every whim. Her neighbors in the Crowninshield House were lovely, of course, but were chronically preoccupied with other things, such as magic, cats, painting and drinking themselves stupid.  
  
“I would invite you for tea on  _Demeter_ , which has been fully equipped to meet my needs.” Dracula murmured underneath his wide-brimmed black hat. “I am afraid, however, that these gentlemen have had enough of my ship already.”  
  
Helen walked arm-in-arm with both the Count and Mr. Hyde, while Dorian and Lord Wotton led the way, constantly turning around to look at her face and react accordingly. They had taken it upon themselves to carry the four bags and three boxes that contained Helen’s purchases.   
  
Dorian seemed to be incapable of shutting up, much to Hyde’s chagrin – during the shopping spree, several ladies had stared at him openly, one of them going so far as to wink at him. Understandably, Dorian was excited to learn that his good looks were still relevant in this strange new world he had found himself into.  
  
Speaking of which, Helen had to know what had happened to her old friends.  
  
“I am afraid I do not understand this situation completely.” She batted her eyelashes at the Count for good measure. “So you woke up one day, got out of your coffin, checked on the girls, and when you climbed up on the deck in search of fresh meat…”  
  
“Nearby ships.” Dracula corrected.  
  
“Riiiight.” Helen squeezed his arm slightly. “And you found these three lying there, unconscious but otherwise unharmed.”  
  
“I was just waking up.” Wotton began explaining. “I remember going out that night with some of my friends, nothing unusual. We went to this new place that had just opened, on Queer Street, and while I wasn’t  _very_  heavily inebriated…”  
  
“When you woke up on the deck, you were unable to walk a straight line if your life depended on it.”  Mr. Hyde cried out, causing the other passers-by to shoot the curious company looks of mild disapproval.    
  
Wotton furrowed his brow in false contemplation.  
  
“I distinctly remember trying on the barmaid’s bonnet, but that could have been just a dream. What wasn’t a dream, however, was Dorian’s funeral, which I had attended last month.”  
  
Dorian glared at him before declaring with a huff:  
  
“I remember stabbing my own portrait. Make of that what you will.”   
  
Helen knew exactly what that meant and decided to hug the boy as soon as she could. The poor thing probably needed it. Wotton, however, was totally in the dark as far as his friend’s rather special painting was concerned.   
  
“I’m not saying that I’m not happy to see you again, dear.” He cooed and reached out to pinch Dorian’s cheek.  
  
Helen glanced at Hyde, whose expression darkened considerably. He bared his teeth, as if trying to force the words to leave his mouth by scaring them to death. Helen briefly leaned her head on his shoulder.  
  
“I was there when they buried you, Edward.” She whispered.”You can’t imagine how happy I am to see you again.”  
  
Hyde ducked his head in embarrassment, but nonetheless managed the ghost of a smile.  
  
“Likewise, Helen.”  
  
“You should know that I missed you terribly. You are like a brother to me, and the best friend I have ever had.”  
  
Dorian and Wotton shamelessly listened in on their conversation. The Count, on the other hand, had the decency to fix his gaze on the front of a nearby bookshop.   
  
“Uh-huh… Well… Likewise…” Hyde finally muttered.  
  
Dracula hummed – a low, oddly resonant sound that made their hearts miss a beat. Wotton, who had opened his mouth to say something, closed it immediately. Dorian’s expression became solemn as well. Hyde bit his lip in anticipation.   
  
 _‘The Count frightens them.’_  Helen thought.  _‘Good. I wonder if he told them what exactly he is, or had some mercy and made that story a bit easier to swallow.’_  
  
She turned her face to the Count again.   
  
“We were in the middle of a most interesting talk, Your Excellency. Um… how long did you say it took you to reach the United States?”  
  
“In my estimation, less than a week.” Dracula frowned. “It was not the most pleasant of voyages, milady. The weather was far too strange for my tastes.”  
  
“But you can  _manage_  all kinds of weather, can you not?” Helen demanded.  
  
“There was a storm, milady, when I had not called for one. I attempted to calm down the winds and chase away the lightning, but to no avail. The storm raged for days and we saw neither the indifferent face of the sun, nor the silver-coated moon and the shivering stars. Not until we reached Boston Harbor and the storm ceased at last.” Dracula sighed inaudibly. “During the voyage, we saw no other vessels. My lovely brides were tormented by hunger and boredom.”  
  
“While being on the same ship with such strapping young men? ” Helen noticed Wotton’s handsome face turn pale at the mere mention of the brides.  
  
“I wished to know exactly how they had managed to board my ship while it was two hundred miles southwest of Iceland.” All of a sudden, Dracula’s expression became stern.  
  
“At first, His Excellency here did want to feed us to those wenches of his, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.” Hyde said offhandedly. “But I happened to remember that you once mentioned your brief scuffle with this rather… extraordinary nobleman from Eastern Europe, and how in the end the two of you parted as good friends. When it became clear that we all know you and like you, well… ”   
  
Dracula nodded in a manner that could only be described as majestic.  
  
“Any friend of Helen Vaughan’s is temporarily off the menu.”  
  
Dorian laughed out loud.   
  
“He actually has a great sense of humor, doesn’t he, Henry?” He made a clumsy attempt to nudge his friend without dropping the three boxes he was carrying. “For a vampire, I mean.”  
  
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Wotton answered dutifully.  
  
Helen gave Dracula a questioning stare. He was not even trying to be subtle.   
  
“So. You’ve told them.”  
  
 _’But how much?'_  
  
The Count shrugged.  
  
“I did not have to. It was rather obvious, milady.”  
  
“And did you tell them about…” Helen’s eyes bulged out for a second.  
  
“Of course not!” Dracula was indignant. “It is not my secret to reveal.”  
  
They walked in complete silence for several minutes, before Hyde spoke.  
  
“If you’re talking about you not being fully human…”  
  
Helen forgot how to breathe.  
  
“We weren’t surprised when His Excellency let it slip.” Dorian said with a light smile.   
  
“Not at all.” Wotton added.  
  
“Like the Count said, it was rather obvious… I just did not know what to call it.”  
  
“You more or less told me yourself. I’m not stupid, and I’m not close-minded. Not after all I’ve been through. ”  
  
“At least you’ve never killed anybody... ”  
  
Helen thought about it for a second, before remembering to give a startled laugh. Dorian and Hyde were all too quick to join her.  
  
Helen let their conversations wash over her as she tried to arrange her thoughts and feelings. It was nice, having all her old friends from London so close again. She was glad that they took everything in stride – the unnaturally quick trip across the Atlantic ocean, the missing forty years or so from their calendars, the company of the Count… though she could safely guess that living in close quarters with Vlad Dracula for several days easily made everything else seem frightfully boring in comparison.   
  
“I think I know what happened.” She said out of nowhere, interrupting Dorian’s monologue on these new-fangled automobiles and how much he would like to learn to drive one.  
  
They all stopped walking – luckily, not in the middle of the busy street. Dorian, Wotton and Hyde fell silent, waiting to hear the rest of it, their curiosity obvious. Dracula’s ears visibly twitched.  
  
“It has happened before. To my neighbors, who are also my closest friends here in this world.  Some of them are supposed to be dead, just like you, Edward, and you, Dorian.”   
  
It was a wonderful day – not too sunny, not too warm, and not too windy. Just like the day of the spring equinox a year ago, when Helen had woken up in an unfamiliar forest, far away from her home and from her previous life.   
  
“I myself  am supposed to be dead. We all remember dying, we remember the pain and the horror… and yet here we are, alive and well.”   
  
She remembered vividly the day when she set out to find a portal to the fey world, but found something else. Someone else. Someone like her.   
  
And he had explained as well as he could, and now she repeated his words to her friends (sans the accent, of course).   
  
 _‘Yer here ‘cause ye fit. ’Yer here ‘cause ye belong. ‘Tis a strange world, but there’s a place fer ye in it.’_  
  
***  
  
 **June 3, 1934 15:30**  
  
Henry Armitage sat on his usual chair in Carrie White’s antique shop, sipping cold tea and eating cookies.   
  
How idyllic.   
  
He had arrived at noon with three new books and a small envelope; he had listened to her report.   
  
Understandably, he had been freaked out.    
  
To be entirely honest, he was still freaking out on some level, but his emotions were under control now. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, sip some tea, repeat. Take a cookie, take a bite, chew the cookie, swallow.   
  
Wilbur Whateley was alive, his father had attracted new worshippers in the face of an entire alien civilization, and Carrie had struck a deal with Yog-Sothoth.   
  
Just peachy.  
  
It was the deal that worried Armitage the most. The safety of the planet Earth, in exchange for the safety of his Spawn… This could mean practically anything. Was Carrie supposed to protect Wilbur Whateley now, or simply try not to kill him? Did the safety of the planet include the safety of all organisms that inhabited its surface? It did not suffice to say that the uncertainty was bothering him greatly.  
  
According to Carrie, Yog-Sothoth had phrased his conditions are vaguely as possible in order to abuse the resulting loopholes. Typical for any being that called itself a god, if you asked her – to forget that mortals could be just as nasty.   
  
Armitage did not like her face when she said that. It hinted of monstrous lessons learned in the darkest pits of…  _wherever_ she had been before coming to Arkham.   
  
Two things were crystal clear, though – that Yog-Sothoth was incapable of fully entering this universe, and that he was trying to control it in the same way Nyarl… here Carrie had stuttered a bit… in the same way the Crawling Chaos did – through his servants. And Yog-Sothoth had not asked her to spare anybody else, just Wilbur Whateley…   
  
In other words, she had concluded while pouring the tea, everything was fine. Let Whateley believe she got off his tail, let him feel safe.  She was going to wait for him, like a lion in cover.  
  
Armitage was not convinced, but Carrie’s cool-headedness soothed his jangled nerves and he eventually dropped the subject.  
  
The girl sat across from him now, reading quickly. She had chosen to begin with the envelope, which contained several hand-written pages. She had already discarded the first page, upon which the title was written in large flourished letters - _’Morella’_.   
  
“This woman here sounds a bit like Whateley’s female friend, that Beaumont woman.” Carrie noted when she finished her reading. “Intriguing, but kind of… creepy.”  
  
Beaumont, Beaumont… Armitage scratched his ear.  
  
“Speaking of which, I have this… nagging feeling, it’s very irritating and hard to explain… It’s almost as if I had heard about this Mrs. Beaumont before the newspaper articles showed up in the library.” He frowned in concentration. “I think I’ve read it in a book, but for the life of me, I can remember neither the title nor the contents... something about a scandal and… Dunwich… I’m not sure.”   
  
“Either way, I have bigger fish to fry than this Morella. What’s next?  _’Dracula’_  by Bram Stoker.” Carrie whistled. “This is a novel from my world. A really famous novel. Hell, even I have heard of Dracula, despite my rather…  _sheltered_  upbringing.”  
  
“It manages to combine every horrible legend regarding vampires into one memorable character.” Armitage said as he reached for his third cookie. “You have to simultaneously stab him through the heart and cut off his head, if you want to kill him.”  
  
Carrie nodded.  
  
“I could do that. Right after I get him to autograph this.” She waved the book in front of the librarian before placing it aside. “And what’s this? More books from this Stephen King fellow…  _‘The Stand’_  and  _'Duma Key'_  - wow, quite the doorstoppers.”  
  
The librarian wondered whether to tell her right now or wait for her to reach the paragraph that had made his hair stand on end. In the end, he decided to be merciful.  
  
“ _’The Stand’_  mentions the Crawling Chaos by his name. Its antagonist is probably one of his avatars. A man called Randall Flagg…”  
  
Carrie looked up from the book and stared at Armitage, blinking slowly.   
  
“A guy with a bunch of stupid badges on his shirt and long hair?”  
  
Armitage almost choked on his tea.  
  
“You’ve met him?”  
  
“He dug me out of my grave.”  
  
Silence reigned between them while the librarian processed this brand new piece of information.   
  
Carrie placed  _’The Stand’_  next to  _’Dracula’_  and reached for  _’Duma Key’_. This time, she only had to take one look at the cover in order to shock the old man.  
  
“Oh, this is Perse’s book.”  
  
Armitage dropped his half-eaten cookie on the table.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“The red doll that kills people because it has nothing better to do with its life? Yes, I’ve met her too. I also met this Rose Madder character from the previous lot.”  
  
Armitage carefully placed his teacup on the table.  
  
“When, where and how?”  
  
Carrie simply pointed at the farthest corner of the shop, behind the sewing machine. There was a small cupboard, half-hidden in the shadows, upon which a dollhouse was set. It was easily the most beautiful and exquisite dollhouse Armitage had ever seen. A small painting hung above it, depicting a red-clad woman overlooking the ruins of an ancient temple.  
  
“I found them both in the shop this morning. Apparently, Perse tried to do something awful to the Peacock tapestry; good thing Rose managed to reach out of the canvas in time. Imagine my shock when I walked in on that.”  
  
The librarian tried to imagine it. He could not.   
  
“Perse agreed to behave, as long as I let her live in the dollhouse. Rose demanded that I place her painting nearby, so that she can keep an eye on Perse.” Carrie smiled sweetly at his deer-in-the-headlights expression. “They were both surprisingly easy to talk to... once I stopped screaming at them, that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title was 'Villains Out Shopping'. XD But the next chapter will be called 'Castling Short', so there.
> 
> Henry Armitage is the only Lovecraftian character in this chapter, but he's just as fun to bother as the others. Also, sequel hooks!~ :P


	16. Castling Short

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Chapter 13: Castling Short  
  
June 3, 1934 11:20**  
  
The telephone in Crowninshield House’s smallest apartment rang for the first time since its installation. It was a strangely hoarse, muffled sound, as if the machine was just waking up after months of disuse. The sole inhabitant of the place, however, chose to ignore it.  
  
Wilbur Whateley had arrived home early in the morning, only to slump in the nearest armchair and not make a single movement for the next several hours. The all-night drive from Maine to Massachusetts had taken its toll on him, but right now physical exhaustion was the least of his problems.   
  
Somewhere out there, Carrie White was walking alive and unharmed, after almost killing him. Somewhere out there, a practically indestructible Shoggoth was crawling free and unbound. Somewhere out there, Khaa’r’s clan thought he was still on a mission.    
  
The phone stopped ringing.  
  
Wilbur chewed on his bottom lip until the pain warned him that he was about to draw blood. He had already decided: he would do his ‘chores’ first – namely, meeting Zkauba in Greenland and reading ‘The King in Yellow’ from cover to cover. Everything and everyone else would have to wait until he felt like dealing with them.   
  
He would have to go through his personal belongings soon and decide what to bring along for the journey and what to leave for safekeeping at Ephraim’s.   
  
Perhaps Herbert West could help him with some advice – if the doctor managed to return safely from his own quest beyond the Arctic Circle, that is…  
  
He was not quite sure what that quest was, to be entirely honest. Something about reanimating… polar bears?  
  
The phone rang again.   
  
This time, Wilbur, or rather his tail, picked up the receiver.  
  
***  
  
 **June 3, 1934 07:10**  
  
Ephraim Waite soaked his clothes in the warm soapy water that filled the washbasin almost to the brim. Shirt, trousers, socks, undergarments… he briefly entertained the thought of filling the bathtub as well and enjoying a nice long soak himself.  
  
Perhaps another time. When his life was not falling apart and he did not feel like drowning in said bathtub.  
  
He went back to his bedroom only to get a fresh towel, but the full-length mirror in the corner caught his attention. He marched to it and gave himself a critical once-over.   
  
Ephraim had grown comfortable with Edward Derby’s body. It was robust and pretty and its brain fit his mind like glove. However, it was not  _his_  body, not really, which made him little more than a parasite. Wrinkles were cropping up with a greater frequency than before, and his blond hair was beginning to thin out. He would have to start looking around for a new body soon, before this one’s health began deteriorating.   
  
Flinging the towel over his shoulder with a sigh, Ephraim snatched a comb from his nightstand and headed back to the bathroom. A quick shower, followed by several hours of decent sleep was all he could ask for right now. And maybe some steak for dinner...   
  
He pulled the shower curtain and lifted his right foot to step inside the tub.   
  
And then he screamed.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
It was a Shoggoth.   
  
 _The_  Shoggoth, to be precise.  _His_  Shoggoth.   
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
Stumbling backwards, Ephraim leaned on the sink, not peeling his eyes off from the creature in his bathtub. It stared back at him, craning the upper part of its body to get a better look. They remained like that at each for a couple of minutes, gazing at each other in complete silence.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_   _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
The Shoggoth had recovered its normal black color and its many eyes no longer twinkled with menace. That was... good.  
  
Also, now it was roughly the size of a poodle.  
  
***  
  
Ten minutes later, Ephraim had managed to lure the mini-Shoggoth into an empty jar of olives, tightening the lid as much as he could. To his relief, the little ball of sentient slime seemed to have reverted to its previous docile behavior as well.    
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
He set the jar in the middle of the kitchen table and piled the several volumes of ‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare’ on top of its lid. The mini-Shoggoth blinked at him, but made no attempt to get out of its impromptu prison.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_    
  
Ephraim sat on one of the chairs with his arms and legs tightly crossed.   
  
“Now what?” he asked the room as a whole.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_  
  
***  
  
 **June 3, 1934 07:23**  
  
“Uh, hello?”  
  
“Wilbur, it’s me.”  
  
“…”  
  
“It’s me, Khaa’r.”  
  
“… Is it really?”  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“… ’M fine.”  
  
“I am telephoning you in order to apologize.”  
  
“Ye… what?!”  
  
“I will not be returning to Arkham.”  
  
“Where are ye?”  
  
“Innsmouth. I will return to the ocean in less than an hour. Today, Joe Sargent will come to collect my personal belongings. You remember him, he is the one that used to drive an autobus to Newburyport and Arkham...”  
  
“Why Sargent? Why not come yerself?”  
  
“I wish to go home, Wilbur.”  
  
“…”  
  
“I hope that you can understand.”  
  
“I saw ye getting’ torn to pieces, an’… an’ I watched as the Shoggoth ate those pieces up...”  
  
“I am sorry to interrupt, but do you happen to know where the Shoggoth is right now?”  
  
“Right now, I’ve bigger things to deal with! Khaa’r… how did ye… when…”  
  
“I woke up in the cave where the Chesuncook Coven used to…”  
  
“Ye woke up? Ye. Woke. Up?”  
  
“Wilbur, you cannot imagine what it was like. All I could remember  at first was the agony I had felt during my last moments, and when I…”  
  
“… when ye returned to consciousness, ye needed a couple o’ hours to realize that it was all over, like a… like a bad dream; an’ then ye had to relearn, just like a newborn, what cold feels like, what hunger an’ thirst feel like, what fear an’ pain an’ discomfort an’ loneliness an’ uncertainty feel like – oh,  _just like a newborn_ , ye had to lie there, defenseless an’ confused, while in yer head everythin’ gets in its proper place an’ it finally dawns on ye that one day yer gonna have to go through the same thing again, and this time ye might not get another shot. Believe me, I know what it  feels like! Ephraim knows, an’… an’ Herbert knows, an’ Randolph can pro’bly relate too.”  
  
“I apologize.”  
  
“So what… what’re ye tryin’ to tell me – one measly resurrection an’ yer suddenly too scared to even finish yer stupid _research_? Or did that mission was also a failure? Which by the way’s a pretty dumb cover. Hard to believe infiltration’s what ye do for a livin’. What was it now… somethin’ ‘bout the quality of life in a prospering human city? Hah. And yer thinkin’ yer foolin’ anyone.”   
  
“I have always known that you knew, Wilbur.”   
  
“Well, ye really got into this mission, though. Ordered a ton of newspapers, went out at night, asked stupid questions… which Randolph loved to answer. Didn’t ‘e write a… an essay ‘bout… uh, earthquakes, was it? Shame ye couldn’t go to the library too.”   
  
“I did not wish to lie to you. Nor to the others.”  
  
“Like I care about the others. Their secrets ain’t mine to keep.”  
  
“And yet you leave your own work out in the open for anyone to find.”  
  
“So? Don’t tell me ye’ve found anythin’ of interest in my notes.”  
  
“No, Wilbur. I found nothing in your notes that can be of use to my people.”  
  
“Why of course, this whole universe must revolve ‘round the Deep Ones! How could I ever forget!”  
  
“I can understand why you are so angry…”  
  
“That… that woman – remember her, she made mince meat outta ye? – she almost killed me. An' ye… ye forced me to trade my privacy in exchange for the handful of books ye let me borrow from Innsmouth. Both of ye should’ve died. Both of you survived. I don’t know what my father’s thinkin’, bringin’ ye back, but I can promise ye that if ye get in my way again…”  
  
“You’ll do what? Throw a grimoire at my head again and say something unpleasant about my ancestors’ mating habits?”  
  
“… I’ve  _never_  mentioned yer ancestors, ye pompous mackerel!”  
  
“You just did.”   
  
“Ye think this’s some kind of a joke?!”  
  
“At the very least, please pick the lock to my room so that Sargent can take everything away. You can keep that helmet you are so fond of…”  
  
Wilbur slammed the phone down.   
  
Half an hour later, Khaa’r’s belongings, along with most of Wilbur’s library, were piled neatly near the front door, which now stood wide open, waiting for someone to pick them up and take them away.   
  
***  
  
 **June 17, 1934**  
  
“It… it’s alive… It’s alive! IT’S ALIIIIIVE!!... ”  
  
Adam Frankenstein clapped a giant hand over Herbert West’s mouth, almost covering his entire face.  
  
“Keep it down, you might frighten the poor critter.”  
  
The massive body before them stirred again; its muscles seemed to twitch one by one, as if it was testing their mobility before actually putting them to use. The creature was covered with thick white hair that looked more like frost, rather than fur. It was nearly thirteen feet tall, with a long narwhal-like horn that added three additional feet to its overall length. It had a total of six legs, each ending with three hooked claws.    
  
Adam and Herbert had arrived to Ellesmere Island in Canada via snowstorm – there was no other way to explain how they had managed to cross a distance of nearly 2000 miles in five days (not that Herbert had been able to keep track of the time) without seeing a single body of water. The monstrous white shape in the air that Adam referred to as the Wind-Walker had led them to the cave where the experiment was to be conducted. The shape had explained, in a soft voice that seemed to come from all directions, that it had scraped out as much of the ice, snow and rock as it could without damaging its ‘pet’.   
  
A single misshapen block of ice was waiting for them in the bottom of the cave. Upon finding it, Herbert had guessed – correctly - that it contained the specimen’s remains.   
  
After two days of hard work with the pickaxes, they had succeeded in shrinking it to two thirds of its previous size – enough for Adam to be able to drag the block closer to the cave’s entrance, where the Wind-Walker would periodically leave firewood (torn off branches and tree trunks that had been viciously split in two) and freshly killed animals. Several carefully maintained bonfires later, the ice had melted to reveal a perfectly preserved specimen.  
  
One week after their arrival, Herbert had prepared a liter of his solution and Adam had drained the blood of three polar bears – those were the correct proportions, according to the doctor’s rough calculations. The transfusion had been performed with the help of a bucket, a funnel and a small hose.   
  
The creature opened its eyes – they turned out to be red, with several concentric irises, and altogether disturbingly intelligent. It stood up slowly, one set of limbs at a time, until it was confident enough to make a couple of steps. Its horn almost touched the cave’s ceiling. It sniffed the air and growled softly – the sound resembled the purring of a giant cat. The creature turned its giant head to look at its reanimators and observed them impassively for a while. Eventually, it approached Herbert and proceeded to sniff him, nearly pushing him over when it shoved its muzzle into his stomach. Adam underwent the same procedure afterwards.  
  
The soft voice that seemed to come from all directions filled the cave.  
  
“Gnoph-keh.”  
  
The creature growled louder, as if to respond, and headed outside. Herbert and Adam watched as two giant hands lifted it, much like a child picking up their teddy bear.   
  
They glanced at each other – their clothes and faces were spectacularly stained with blood and soot, the marks of success.  
  
“Was that it?” Herbert finally asked.  
  
“That was it, doctor.” Adam responded with a huff of laughter.  
  
“In that case, get me back to Arkham as soon as possible. I have morgues to go to and corpses to see.”  
  
***  
  
 **June 26, 1934 20:45**  
  
“Did we sell anything?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“How many people fainted so far?”  
  
“Two.”  
  
“Did anybody throw up?”  
  
“Yes, Albert Wilmarth.”  
  
“Was Ephraim there to see it?”  
  
“He even managed to take a picture.”  
  
“Good.” Pickman grinned and elbowed Randolph Carter in the gut.  
  
“Ouch! That was uncalled for.”   
  
Several of the guests pretended to ignore their host’s shenanigans. The rest were too busy gawking at the paintings, nibbling on cucumber sandwiches and sipping lukewarm champagne.  
  
The exhibition was small – only twenty canvases, but Pickman’s notoriety was the stuff of legend. His mysterious disappearance seven years ago and his unexpected return last spring had increased the public’s curiosity, which had been whetted even further by the case of Pickman’s old works – the notorious paintings had been stolen from his dwelling place in Boston the night before a big charitable auction by unknown persons.   
  
(The theft had actually been committed by ghouls, who had brought the paintings to the Dreamlands and more specifically, to the city of Ilek-Vad, where a certain Dreamer named Randolph Carter reigned as king. But the public did not need to know the truth, because the public could not handle the truth.)  
  
“I can’t believe we’re leaving! We’re actually going home!” Pickman stood on the balls of his feet like a fidgety child. “I’m so happy I might just kiss the next person who comes up to tell me that my exhibition is monstrous.”   
  
“Speaking of home, are you sure you’ve packed everything?” Randolph muttered as he continued rubbing his assaulted stomach.  
  
“I packed three days ago. Hello? We kind of live together, you should have noticed by now.”  
  
“Huh, I thought you were simply doing a bit of cleaning for a change…”  
  
“Oh, hi-ha-ha, Carter. Hi-ha-ha… ”  
  
Randolph stabbed his finger at Pickman’s chest and asked with the gravest expression he could muster.  
  
“So when do I get to pick which paintings to take with me?”  
  
“I don’t know. When will you stop being a smart-ass?”  
  
Their oh-so-serious conversation came to a halt when they noticed an odd-looking couple heading towards them. The short elderly man was no other than Henry Armitage, the head librarian of Miskatonic University, a renowned cardigan connoisseur and an old acquaintance of nearly everyone Pickman and Carter knew. The girl with him was young enough be his granddaughter. She walked half a step behind Armitage like a white-clad shadow.  
  
Randolph was the first to recognize the long blonde hair. He gave Pickman a discreet nudge.  
  
“A most fascinating exhibition, Mr. Pickman!” the librarian shook hands with them, beaming pleasantly. “I expected nothing less, of course.”  
  
“I try to keep up the good work.” Pickman shrugged.  
  
“I especially liked the painting with the mountain that’s shaped like a humanoid head.”  
  
“I bet you did – that particular one was a bitch to draw.”  
  
“I simply cannot fathom where you get all these ideas from…”  
  
“What can I say - they came to me in a dream.”  
  
“Even the one over there, with the army of cats and the tribe of… uh, rodent-like fairies?”  
  
“ _Especially_  that one.”  
  
Carrie met Randolph’s curious eyes and motioned him to follow her. She snatched two flutes with champagne from the nearest table and handed him one. They clinked their glasses together, without saying a word to each other, and drank.   
  
Meanwhile, Armitage and Pickman continued to banter like old friends, despite barely knowing each other.   
  
“Walk with me, talk with me.” Carrie murmured, not really looking at Randolph as she wrapped a slender arm around his elbow. “I’ve been hearing that you plan on disappearing again soon, or have I heard wrong?”  
  
He followed her gaze. His heart shrank a little when he noticed that it was aimed at the small, colorful and rather mischievous-looking group in the corner that was composed of Helen Vaughan and her newly arrived friends from Britain.  
  
“How did you… ah yes, I remember.” Randolph tapped his temple with his index and middle fingers. “You can read minds.”  
  
Carrie wrinkled her nose at him.  
  
“The human mind is like a library, Your Highness. Have you ever tried to read an entire library? In the end, both your head and the shelves are a complete mess...”   
  
“ _What_  did you just call me?!”  
  
“… but several minds, brought together and close to each other, especially when they’re somewhat similar and at times almost intertwined… are like an art exhibition, which is much easier to go through – then again, I am used to studying many minds at once, rather than focusing on a single one, so I can’t really talk until I’m equally good at both.” She gave him a slight smile, which instantly made her features much better-looking. “I took some time off of my already busy schedule to study your mind, Your Highness, and the minds of your friends too.”  
  
Randolph really wanted to get away from the girl, but could not do so without appearing extremely rude. He told himself to get a grip.  
  
“How much do you know, then?”  
  
He could not help but notice that Carrie White was sincerely interested in Pickman’s paintings – she paused in front of each and every one, studying the composition and the colors, occasionally tilting her head or taking a step back, always careful not to pull on his arm.  
  
“I’ve seen enough to know that most of them are cold-blooded murderers.” She finally whispered. “Enough to know that your presence is one of the few things that are stopping them from going back to their old ways.”   
  
“You’re overestimating my influence over them. They’re simply being prudent…”  
  
In the corner, the handsome blond gentleman, Florian Cray (or something like that), laughed at something the tall elderly nobleman had said or rather insinuated, if Helen’s sly chuckle was any indication. Randolph noted that the other guests tried to keep their distance from the group.  
  
“And they will remain that way if they know what’s good for them.” Carrie said brightly, in the same tone of voice other people used to announced that the weather was perfect for a picnic. “Let them know, Your Highness, that if they make one wrong move, I’m going to burn down that wretched house while they’re in it.”  
  
Florian Cray’s moustached friend waved at Ephraim Waite to join them, but the wizard’s attention was focused entirely on a strange, if attractive, dark-haired woman and the cheese cube she was offering him.  
  
“And I’ll make Wilbur Whateley watch.” Carrie added as an afterthought.  
  
Randolph took a sip from his flute before asking conversationally:  
  
“Why are you behaving this way?”  
  
“What way?”  
  
Okay, how do you explain to someone that they are obviously a raging psychopath? Randolph had pondered this question before and was yet to come up with a satisfying answer.    
  
“Ah, you’re asking about the murder thing.”  
  
“Yes, the… the murder… thing.”  
  
Carrie finally let go of Randolph’s arm to run her fingers through her long hair. That took some time.  
  
“It’s difficult to explain, although it all makes sense in my head.“   
  
“It always makes sense in your head.”  
  
The scruffy-looking man, Hyde, pointed at something on Helens’ blouse. When she looked down, he flicked her nose. It was kind of funny, in an immature sort of way, but mainly because Helen Vaughan had her nose flicked.   
  
“There are several words that come up when I think about what I do.” Carrie began her explanation. “Retribution. Divinity. Atonement. Labor. Significance. Before I… before I came here, I failed to put my talents to good use. I think of this as a second chance – a chance to do something right.”  
  
Ephraim Waite half-wrote, half-drew something on a napkin and gave it to the dark-haired woman with a wide smile.   
  
“What I do, Your Highness, is actually very simple – I seek cruelty and I give it a taste of its own medicine. I seek those who make victims out of people, and in turn I make victims out of them.”  
  
Pickman and Armitage were in the middle of attacking a plate with cucumber sandwiches. The artist was explaining to the librarian why he refused to do sculptures and carvings.   
  
“I do not expect you to understand this, Your Highness. You have never seen cruelty as I have seen it. It stains the mind like blood...”  
  
Randolph felt that he had to interrupt.  
  
“Believe me, I have seen enough of both cruelty and blood, Miss, and I know how ugly they can make reality appear, and how the mere sight of them scars the soul – after all, I served in the Foreign Legion during the World War.”  
  
“The first one?” The question left Carrie’s mouth before she realized what she was saying.  
“Oh, wrong time… other universe, um…” she bit her lip. “Please ignore me.”  
  
Randolph could only stare at her.  
  
“The first one?” he repeated dully.  
  
Before she could answer, someone whistled and called his name.  
  
“Oi, Carter!”   
  
It was Hyde – after all, who else would whistle in the middle of an art exhibition, if not the person who dressed and acted like an utter scoundrel? During their stroll, Randolph and Carrie had inadvertently entered the group’s field of vision.   
  
“What’ve you got there, Randy? Who’s your little friend?”   
  
Carrie shot Randolph a conspirative glance that somehow made him feel like an accomplice in a mass murder. His fears got worse when she bared her teeth at Hyde in what was supposed to be a friendly smile.  
  
“Ah, the Syphilis’ Society!” she exclaimed, causing several heads to turn in her direction. “Victorian London’s cream of the crop!”   
  
Helen’s eyes were drawn into poison-green slits. With a single step, she moved to stand between the men and the girl. Carrie’s grin disappeared, but the teeth stayed.  
  
“Let’s see, from left to right – Lord What’s-His-Face Wotton –not of much importance, as far as I can remember, and the far more notable Dorian Gray.” The moustached man opened his mouth, a sharp retort no doubt ready, but the girl did not give him a chance to speak before turning to his friend. “If you’re looking for a certain portrait, Mr. Gray, you won’t find it here. I’ve made sure of that.”   
  
“At least it’s not rotting in some damp basement, with rats nibbling on the paint and dropping dead afterwards.” Dorian responded lightly as he placed a soothing hand on Wotton’s shoulder.  
  
“Huh, now there’s an idea for pest control.” Carrie said under her breath. “What do you think, Edward Hyde? Or is Dr. Jekyll the chemist of the house?”  
  
Hyde’s leering expression had vanished along with Helen’s good mood. His entire stance told Randolph that he was ready to lunge forward and probably punch the girl, whose eyes found those of the elderly gentleman.  
  
“Count Dracula.” She whispered with a mock reverence. “Vampire. Legend. Pain in the neck.”  
  
Dracula nodded graciously. He seemed to be mildly entertained by what was happening, if the manner in which he twirled the gilded ebony cane between his fingers was any indication.  
  
“And Mrs. Beaumont. Do you still carry a gun strapped to your garter?”  
  
All of a sudden, Helen’s expression became deceptively serene. She smiled sweetly and raised her glass to her lips before answering.  
  
“That’s only for me to know… Miss White.”  
  
“Either way, it’s not like it was of much use to you last time.” Carrie took a sip from her own flute. “Keep these three on a leash, would you? Same goes to you, Mr. Dracula. I’m talking about those brides, of course.”  
  
“Mind reader.” Helen explained to her companions, pronouncing the two words with the same intonation that was usually reserved for phrases like ‘basket case’ and ‘has herpes’.  
  
“No, no… in this case, just a reader.” Carrie corrected her offhandedly. “Ask Whateley, I think I mentioned something to him… He might not remember it, though, since I tried to kill him almost immediately after  _that_  conversation. Speaking of which, where is he?” Carrie turned to Randolph, seemingly forgetting about the others. “Haven’t used him as a punching bag for quite a while.”  
  
“Get out.” Helen hissed, reverting to her previous militant stance.  
  
“Oh right. He is leaving tonight, isn’t he?” Carrie drank the rest of her champagne in one gulp. “For… wherever his daddy wants him to go next. I think I’ll go and say good-bye, then. Hopefully I’ll catch him before he leaves Arkham.”  
  
“You… ” Helen’s red locks began curling around her face and shoulders, like the hair of a furious Gorgon. Her eyes were wide with rage and their pupils seemed to shift, constantly changing their shape and size.  
  
“Hey, calm down. I’m getting out, just like you asked. ” Carrie turned to leave, but stopped to check the pockets of her dress. “Aha! Almost forgot.” She tossed something at Randolph. “Could you give this to your landlord? He's right over there, but I don't want to ruin his pleasant evening or embarrass him in front of his new friend.”  
  
Randolph looked at the object, turning it in his palm, as Carrie disappeared into the crowd. It appeared to be an automatic knife of some sort, but when he pressed the button, only one half of a blade came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a prissy Wilbur, a naked Ephraim, a pleasant Armitage, a patient Randolph, and the bitchiest Carrie to ever bitch. :D Also, a mini-Shoggoth, because hell yeah!


	17. Epilogue

**The Little Apartment Building Of (mainly) Lovecraftian Crossovers, Crack, Meta-references And Other Assorted Horrors  
  
Epilogue**  
  
There was no need to put an advertisement in  _’The Thaumaturgical Herald’_  this time around. Which kind of annoyed the editor, because that was the whole point of the newspaper – to trick people into telling him things on their own volition.   
  
Nyarlathotep, or Noyes, as this particular avatar of his was called, delivered the usual two issues to Crowninshield House’s mailbox just as Ephraim Waite poked his head thought the front door. The wizard waved at him, but Noyes managed to feign preoccupation with his newsboy bag and ignored the greeting.  
  
He could not help but smirk, however, when his eyes glanced over the recently rebuilt wall and the brand new windows. His smile turned into a full blow grin when he sensed the distress and uncertainty that lurked inside the apartment building like surly ghosts.   
  
Once he was out of Ephraim’s sight, Nyarlathotep made Noyes' body dance a little sidestep.  
  
His sweet girl was becoming more and more comfortable with herself, with the feelings of rage and hate that filled her to the brim, with the acts of violence and the displays of arrogance that came so naturally to her. He especially approved of her bouts of flight…  
  
The higher she flew, the harder she would fall.      
  
***  
  
 **July 1, 1934 12:30**  
  
“I got used to this new world much faster than I expected.” The older, dark-haired and mustachioed man explained, with a smile that revealed an amiable character. “I owe much to Helen… or Mrs. Beaumont, as she prefers to be addressed as.”  
  
Ephraim nodded.  
  
“Yes, Hel can be a real sweetheart when she feels like it. Or so I’ve been told by Wilbur Whateley. Personally, I think she’s made it her mission to annoy me to an early grave.”  
  
“She enjoys nothing better than a slow and painful death.” The younger, blond and smooth-faced man added in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he was commenting on the weather.   
  
“I’ve gathered as much.” Ephraim murmured.  
  
 _Tekewi-wi!_    
  
The mini-Shoggoth in the crook of his arm was getting restless already. It was petted at once – a series of light pats on those parts that were not in direct contact with its master’s body. Ephraim responded to his newest tenants’ identically nauseous expressions with a condescending smile.   
  
“What I don’t understand is how two pretentious noblemen from Victorian England managed to land jobs in a cake shop and not get fired after a week because their monocles fell into the cake batter.”  
  
“Correction, Mr. Derby.” Dorian Gray dared to wave an elegant finger at him. “ _‘Lovett’_  is a pâtisserie.”   
  
“Also known as a ‘cake shop’ in English.”  
  
“Pâtisserie.” Henry Wotton insisted.  
  
Ephraim gave up. He was fully prepared to argue, but decided to spare himself the headache. He fished out the contract from one of the drawers and pushed it across the desk surface.  
  
“Just sign here.”   
  
They did so without saying a word – Ephraim could not help but notice that they both had rather flowery signatures. Once his copy of the contract was filed away, he handed each of them a pair of keys.  
  
“One for the front door and one for your apartment. Keep in mind that the fellows who stayed there before left some pretty big shoes to fill, in both good and bad ways.”  
  
“Mind elaborating on that?” Henry inquired as the three of them stood up simultaneously. “You are referring to Mr. Carter and Pickman the painter, are you not?”  
  
“One of them was of royal stature, a very experienced traveler and rather pleasant to be around.” Ephraim explained. “The other was incredibly vexing when bored, and also a cannibal.”   
  
Something fell on the floor with a clatter. Ephraim mentally patted himself on the back.   
  
“Mr. Gray? Is everything alright?”  
  
Dorian had turned to leave but something had caused him to drop his keys and rush to one of the paintings in Ephraim’s cabinet, almost burying his nose in the canvas. The wizard could not see his face, but it was clear that something had shocked the boy. His shoulders tensed for a second, before relaxing; when he finally turned around, his smile was bright and far too natural to be sincere.  
  
“Such an exquisite portrait, Mr. Derby, although for a second there I couldn’t recognize its subject. This room is not very well lit.”  
  
Ephraim shrugged.   
  
“Well, I had to hang it somewhere. Pickman insisted on burdening me with it.”  
  
Henry peered at the portrait as well.  
  
“I thought it looked familiar when my eyes first landed on it – probably because of the blond hair. Then again, I’m not very familiar with your features – we’ve only seen each other twice before today.”  
  
“Yes, that must be it… the hair.” Dorian agreed.   
  
Henry rubbed his palm together in an over-exaggerated gesture of anticipation.  
  
“Now let’s get settled, shall we?”  
  
***  
  
 **July 1, 1934 17:35**  
  
“No roommates for me, thanks.” Edward Hyde had put up his feet on Ephraim’s desk. “I used to live with another person once, and in rather close quarters too; once I got rid of him, I decided that I had had enough. No roommates, no need to share anything, no need to tolerate anyone...”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Ephraim found himself eyeing the man’s not very clean soles for a moment, before devising a counterattack plan.   
  
He picked the mini-Shoggoth from his lap and placed it in the letter tray.  
  
“So what do you do, exactly?”  
  
Hyde laughed. The sound reminded Ephraim of a fox’s bark.  
  
“I do whatever I please, whenever I please.”  
  
“I meant for a living.”  
  
“Ah.” Hyde made no attempt to conceal the disdain in his voice. “You’re worried about your money.”   
  
Ephraim gritted his teeth.  
  
“Naturally.”   
  
Hyde grinned at him. He had a rather nice set of teeth, but not a very nice smile to frame them.  
  
“Rest assured that you will get what you deserve, mister.”  
  
Ephraim gave him a  _look_  and tossed him the spare keys for Nahab de Salem’s apartment. Hyde caught the bunch easily – like a cat snatching its prize from the air.  
  
“Boy, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”  
  
"Oh, do enlighten me.”  
  
“I was told that a certain someone is going to keep a close eye on this building.”  
  
Hyde began cleaning his fingernails with one of the keys.  
  
“Oooh, how mysterious!”  
  
“That someone tore apart the very same apartment you’re about to rent. My point is, you need to behave. I will deal with her in time, but I don’t want anyone here attracting her attention before I’m ready.”  
  
“What are you talki-ARGH!”  
  
Hyde scrambled to get his feet off the desk, but the mini-Shoggoth refused to let go of his left shoe or budge from its spot on the letter tray.   
  
“Careful not to break anything.” Ephraim commented as he watched Hyde’s attempts to take off his shoe without touching the creature. “You’re… you’re not doing anything right now. Your hands are shaking… You’re tying your shoe for the third time.”  
  
“Not helping!!”  
  
“Why don’t you calm down and think this through before you try anything?”  
  
“Why don’t  _you_  keep this monstrosity on a leash or something?”  
  
“And have it accidentally strangle someone with the rope?”  
  
After several long minutes, Hyde was free. And half-shoeless.  
  
“Don’t worry, it’s not going to eat it or anything.” Ephraim assured him. “It’s going to chew on it for a while, before it gets bored. Kind of like a doggy, actually.”  
  
***  
  
 **July 1, 1934 23:55**  
  
“You will remember to visit, right?” Ephraim squeezed Nuala’s hand, not quite ready to let her go.   
  
“Of course.” The princess assured him and added. “I will think of this house whenever I need a rest from my duties.”  
  
“You won’t forget about us?”   
  
“I will remember my stay here fondly.”  
  
Herbert West sighed as he and Helen watched Nuala attempt to pry her fingers out of Ephraim’s grip.    
  
“Eph, you’re being pathetic.”   
  
“I know, but I can’t help it”. The wizard pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “She was the most pleasant tenant one could hope for; once she leaves, I’ll be stuck with... with…”  
  
“Us. Which isn’t an enviable fate, if we have to be completely honest.” Herbert swatted away a curious moth. “Not to mention that the garden will surely turn savage without its keeper.”  
  
He was right – Crowninshield House’s garden was simply bustling with life; it was the home of all kinds of insects, birds, lizards, frogs (in the neglected fountain), and even squirrels. Without Nuala to keep them in line, the unusually well behaved creatures would turn into pests and the weeds would make a triumphant return.  
  
Meanwhile, Helen was being a responsible aunt by securing the shawl around Nuala’s shoulders with one of her own brooches. Once she was happy with the result, she allowed Nuala to kiss her cheek.   
  
“Give my regards to Balor; and if you see Nuada, tell him to behave. I don’t want you to get hurt because of his idiocy.”   
  
“Will you manage to visit for Samhain? Mr. Carter promised to come, and so did Mr. Pickman, who claims to know of a route that leads from the Vale of Pnath straight to the heart of fey realm. ”   
  
“Well isn’t that a disconcerting piece of information…”  
  
“Not really, no.”  
  
“Well, I will certainly try to come, darling, but I can’t promise anything.”  
  
Helen picked up Nuala’s only suitcase despite her niece’s protests. Ephraim and Herbert also offered their services, but their helping hands were shooed away.   
  
“We’re heading to the back yard, and more specifically – to the ash tree I forbade you to ever cut down.” Helen announced, shooting Ephraim a warning look. “Please make sure that we are not disturbed.”   
  
As always, Nuala had to play the role of the good cop.  
  
“Mr. Waite, I know you do not approve of people opening portals on your property, but I assure you, this one will not make any difference.”  
  
Ephraim huffed what he thought was a demure laugh at her words and waved his hand dismissively.  
  
“Oh, please! If it’s for you, princess...”  
  
Herbert gave his landlord yet another disdainful look.  
  
“Brownnoser.”   
  
***  
  
Helen returned almost an hour later, with the distinct smells of the forest holding onto her hair and clothes like a heady perfume. Several dozen moths and fireflies trailed after her in a drunken delirium. In the darkness, she seemed to emit a barely visible glow, but once she stepped into the light coming from the building’s open front door, the woman looked perfectly ordinary... or at least as ordinary as Helen Vaughan could possibly look.  
  
She sat on the front steps, wrapping her arms around her knees. After some consideration and a brief exchange of looks, Herbert and Ephraim plopped down next to her. Each of them had only known Helen for three months, but they could both sense that she was irritated; they waited for her to speak first, which she eventually did.  
  
“Hard to believe that so many of the first tenants are gone…”   
  
A single firefly landed on her shoulder – the rest of her ‘entourage’ had dispersed. Helen picked it up with great care and began playing with the tiny insect in pretty much the same manner street magicians played with a silver coin.  
  
“Randolph and Pickman returned to the Dreamlands, Khaa’r’s dead…”  
  
“And there’s nothing left from his body.” Herbert found necessary to add while nudging Ephraim in the ribs.  
  
“Have some respect.” the wizard muttered with a frown – as if he was going to let the mad scientist experiment on a single piece of Khaa’r’s corpse.   
  
Helen ignored their brief clash.  
  
“Will’s gone, Nuala’s gone… not forever, of course, but still…”  
  
Ephraim watched her fingers dance around the firefly for a while, before coughing pointedly.   
  
“So I checked Wilbur’s apartment today…” he began, not quite sure as to how he was going to finish that sentence.  
  
“Don’t worry, he hasn’t forgotten anything there.” Helen snapped. “I helped him move his things before he left – if it wasn’t for the maps, they’d easily fit in a single trunk...”  
  
Ah, straight to the point. Ephraim fought the urge to rub his palms.  
  
“And where are they now?”  
  
“Currently, I’m keeping them in the living room, but I’m going to move them in Nuala’s bedroom tomorrow.”  
  
“Why did he leave them to you, anyway? You might get… lipstick and wine all over them.”  
  
“As opposed to your curious fingerprints and your Shoggot’s chewing habits.”  
  
Herbert gave a loud snort and leaned to whisper conspiratively in Ephraim’s ear.   
  
“She thinks he’ll move in with her after he comes back.”  
  
Helen practically shoved the wizard out of the way in her hurry to pinch Herbert for the insolence, but the doctor evaded her nails with a cackle.   
  
“She thinks… no, she’s hoping that they’re going to  _play house_!”  
  
Before they knew it, he was on his feet and sprinting down the corridor and to the basement stairs, where his apartment – his sanctuary – was located.   
  
“She wants to iron his shirts, cook him dinner – just like a married couple!” he called out one last time, before disappearing. A couple of seconds later, they heard him slam his door shut.  
  
***  
  
 **July 2, 1934 10:15**  
  
“And it’s fine if I perform my experiments here?” Morella Allen asked for the third time as she systematically opened and closed every drawer and cupboard she came across.   
  
Watching her move about in her new apartment was quite similar to watching a swallow flit around in a locked room – Morella was a skinny, almost bony creature, dressed in black from head to toe, with pale skin and short dark hair.   
  
“Of course!” Ephraim was sweating like a beaver after insisting to carry the woman’s luggage to the second floor in one trip, but he had not strained anything and, more importantly, had not dropped anything, which was a victory in its own right. “As long as they leave the building in one peace… Haha.” He quickly swiped a handkerchief over his face while Morella was inspecting the bathroom. “And if you need anything, I’m always willing to help… I live upstairs, on the third floor.”  
  
“Wonderful… that’s…. wonderful.” Morella came out of the bathroom and headed towards what was once Wilbur Whateley’s bedroom, her expression suddenly pensive. Ephraim felt obligated to follow her. “Yes, I think I might need your help, but later…”   
  
“You do realize that your experiments are precisely why I decided to offer you this apartment… something I’ve never done, I usually put advertisements in  _The… Herald_. But you… your studies are so similar to my own, it’s almost as if…”  
  
“… as if we’ve been working together all along.” Morella walked out of Wilbur’s room and entered Khaa’r’s. “In spite of using vastly different methods, both of us have come to the same conclusion – that the key to volitional reincarnation lies in the person’s will and that its success depends on…”   
  
“… how well the mind is prepared and on how suitable the new body is for the mind in question.” Ephraim finished with a smile as they left Khaa’r’s room and went back to the living room, which was half-merged with the kitchen. “Miss, forgive me for asking, but where have you been all my life?”  
  
Morella stopped by the coffee table and turned to look at him. She smiled too, but with a noticeable strain.   
  
“Well, I wasted one year of my life being married to the most despicable, narrow-minded, greedy mummy of a man who calls himself Dr. Allen and who claims to be the world’s most accomplished necromancer. You might have heard of him or even known him by his real name – Joseph Curwen.”  
  
Ephraim thought he could feel his stomach attempt to hang itself with a noose made from his small intestine.   
  
“The divorce should be finalized by the end of the month. I’m getting rid of that dead weight and he can once again bask in the glare of his own so-called genius.”  
  
The strange smile on Morella’s face did not budge as she recalled the time spent as a wife to Ephraim Waite’s biggest rival.  
  
“He was so jealous of my progress; and yet he could not understand the brilliance of it – he was far too obsessed with physical immortality, with the preservation of the original body. There was no place in his dust-filled little skull to comprehend what I had known all along by simply observing the cycles of nature – that transformation and change are an integral part of life. All he knew was that I had discovered a new path that was inaccessible to him, and that was enough to drive him mad. In the end, he dared to call my experiments twisted – the nerve of that man!”  
  
Morella suddenly fell silent, as if the feelings of bitterness and anger inside her threatened to break the carefully maintained porcelain mask that was her face. She stared at Ephraim intently, waiting for his reaction.   
  
He felt uncharacteristically helpless, but he decided to give it a shot. Double or nothing.  
  
“Well, it’s all water under the bridge now. Right?”  
  
Morella smiled softly at him – the same smile she had worn all evening during Pickman’s exhibition, where they had first met. Ephraim relaxed.  
  
“Man is a creature that can get used to anything.” She seemed to be quoting somebody. “Although to tell you the truth, I never got used to Joseph.”  
  
“I don’t know if this is going to make you feel any better” Ephraim sat down on the couch and beckoned her to sit beside him, “but he and I used to be in the same group for a while… at least until I put a dead fish in his pocket, which he did not find until two weeks later.”  
  
She burst out laughing.  
  
“He  _did_  mention that he was sabotaged once – heh, that’s one way to put it – by one of his ‘colleagues’, but he’s never mentioned you…”  
  
“Has he ever mentioned a Kamog?”  
  
Morella gasped.  
  
“You’re Kamog?!  _The_  Kamog? The guy with the Shoggoth?”  
  
Ephraim preened.  
  
“The one and only. I still have the Shoggoth, by the way – though it’s shrunk to a size that allows me to keep it in a jar.”  
  
Morella reverted to her ‘lively swallow’ demeanor – she was animated and impatient and, most importantly, full of mirth. Color flooded her pale cheeks when she almost instinctively grabbed Ephraim’s hand.  
  
“Who cares about its size? I’ve never even seen a Shoggoth!”  
  
“Eh, there’s nothing to see – it’s kind of like sentient jelly.”  
  
“But how did you shrink it?”  
  
Luckily, Ephraim had prepared himself for that particular question.  
  
“Let’s just say that Yog-Sothoth got involved and leave it at that.”  
  
Morella hummed.  
  
“Joseph would often talk about that one time he successfully summoned Yog-Sothoth.”  
  
“How cute. One of my previous tenants – in fact, he used to live in this same apartment – used to summon Yog-Sothoth on a regular basis.”  
  
The words left Ephraim’s mouth before he could think them through. He mentally kicked himself.   
  
Morella’s eyes widened. Apparently, she knew a thing or two about the Key and the Gate, and probably not because Joseph Curwen deigned to tell her.  
  
“Really? Well, where is he now?”   
  
Ephraim bit his lip.  
  
“Well, isn’t that the million dollar question…”  
  
***  
  
 **June 26, 1934 21:10**  
  
Wilbur Whateley shut ‘The King in Yellow’ with a snap, feeling enormously pleased with himself, and perched on the nearest chimney with the carelessness of a kid (a baby goat, that is). He had waited for the sun to set before climbing on Crowninshield House’s roof for his ‘recital’ – a perilous journey for someone who possessed the experience but not the suitable equipment.   
  
He fought the urge to scratch his face. The Aklo symbols that covered his entire body were chosen and combined with great care and he was confident that they would have the desired effect, but he could only do so much on such short notice as far as the ink was concerned.   
  
He had decided to travel light – his satchel belt contained the most necessary and hard-to-replace substances and instruments.   
  
Wilbur went through his mental to-do list and placed a tick on all the relevant check-boxes. All he had to do, at least for now, was wait. He averted his eyes from the terrestrial reality that surrounded him and lifted his head to the sky.   
  
The stars twinkled above his head, countless and distant and cruel, as if mocking him for his good mood. He could name each and every one of those stars and the planets that orbited them, he spoke the language of the numerous gods that dwelt out there and he knew the names and the allegiance of the races that served those gods. Wilbur had a multi-dimensional map of the universe inside his head and that knowledge tormented him day and night, not unlike like a holiday card from a far-away land he could never hope to visit…  
  
“Fancy meetin’ ye here.” He said, a bit louder than it was strictly necessary.  
  
Carrie White floated in his field of vision like a recurring nightmare. She was wearing a long dress instead of the short trousers she had been sporting during their last meeting. Her usual halo of knives was nowhere to be seen.   
  
“I am quite familiar with Arkham’s roofs.” She looked at his face intently before adding. “I had no idea that you can climb so fast, though...”  
  
“Almost like a goat. Yes, heard it before, can we move along now?” Wilbur twitched his ears for emphasis.  
  
Carrie almost smiled. He decided to count that as a win, even though he was not quite sure whether they were competing or simply tolerating each other for the time being.   
  
Wilbur knew she had spent some time passively watching Crowninshield House, monitoring the movement of its inhabitants. It was only yesterday, however, when he had finally taken precautions by hiding several talismans around the building in hopes of keeping the girl’s literally intrusive thoughts out of it.  
  
“You have to be in Greenland by the night of the full moon, which is tomorrow.” She bothered to inform him. “What’s taking you so long?”  
  
“I had other places to be.”  
  
“Such as her bed?”  
  
Despite the poor light that came from the full moon above them and the streetlights below them, Wilbur could still see the corners of Carrie’s mouth twitch.  
  
“Thank ye for lettin’ me know that ye watched.” He grumbled.  
  
The girl gave an appalled gasp and for a second Wilbur thought he could see her blush.  
  
“I didn’t! I would never… I left as soon as I knew what was… uh, about to ensue.”  
  
“And I’m supposed to trust you,  _riiight_.”  
  
“Please remember that I could’ve asked Mr. Armitage for your diary, and he would’ve given it to me with all the embarrassing bits underlined.”  
  
“It’s called a journal.”   
  
Carrie levitated to the chimney near his and sat daintily, obviously not bothered by the risk of getting soot on her dress.  
  
“I am not that bad, you know.”  
  
“Ye would murder, torture, threaten and spy on people, but ye wouldn’t read their private journal or watch while they’re with a woman. Yup, yer a real darlin’.”  
  
The girl looked daggers at him and tried to change the subject, which he counted as another win.  
  
“Do you really think that her friends will keep her safe?”  
  
“My father brought ‘em here for a reason.”  
  
“To protect her? To keep her company?”  
  
“They’re here ‘cause they fit. ‘Cause they’re needed and they’re wanted.”  
  
Carrie chewed on her bottom lip and Wilbur suddenly remembered that she herself did not fit in this universe, not really.   
  
Her next words both surprised him and reminded him of something else.   
  
“Those three men and the vampire aren’t the only new things around here.”  
  
New things…   
  
New…   
  
Characters…  
  
“Before ye made mince meat outta me in the forest” he began ever-so-slowly, “ye mentioned books…”  
  
“Yes. Books.” She looked absurdly relieved that he had remembered, as if she did not want to have the same conversation again. “You only open the door for your dad at certain times, right?”  
  
“… Right.”  
  
“When you do so and he… well, these books appear. Books nobody has ever heard of – it’s like the books themselves come from  _yet another_  universe. There are books for her friends – for Dorian and his companion, and for Hyde, and for the vampire. There is… It’s very confusing.”  
  
Wilbur listened to her, soaking up every word as his mind started working on a new map.  
  
“One of them is about me. And there are three other books, from the same author that wrote my book. And  _he_ … the Crawling…  _he_  is mentioned by name in one of those.”  
  
Wilbur’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.   
  
“This makes me wonder… if these books come from a world where I’m just a character from a story… and if  _he_  exists both here and there…”  
  
“Lemme tell ye a li’l secret.” Wilbur interrupted.   
  
The map was almost complete.  
  
“There’s a world where yer real and I’m just a story, and a world where both of us are stories, and a world where both of us are real. There are countless worlds, in fact – or dimensions, or universes, or realities, doesn’t matter what ye call ‘em. They contain everything that can possibly exist – all the stories and all the dreams and all the nightmares and all the gods. ‘Cept for one god – my father, who’s locked in the Void between the universes, where nothingness takes form.” He waited for Carrie to turn over this newfound information in her mind before continuing. “And while all those worlds exist an’ are his to look at from outside, there’s no world like this one.”  
  
“Why? What’s so special about this one?”  
  
“It’s flawed.”   
  
“Because of me?”  
  
“ ‘Cause of ye.”  
  
Carrie nodded solemnly.   
  
They spend the next ten minutes or so stargazing and pretending not to be bothered by each other’s proximity.  
  
Finally, she spoke again, with a tremble in her voice.  
  
“When I read those books, I began thinking about how much damage the ‘newcomers’ might cause. I mean, just look at me!”  
  
Wilbur did not look at her.  
  
“Yer alright. Could be worse.” He muttered.  
  
Carrie ignored him.  
  
“This world doesn’t deserve to have someone like me unleashed upon it. You need to understand – I’m not doing this for fun. I’m doing this because I know I can help.”  
  
“Help whom, exactly?”  
  
“Those who are helpless.”  
  
That earned her a derisive snort and a chuckle.  
  
“Ye fancy yerself a… a guardian angel.”  
  
“I fancy myself someone who can make you beg to be killed.”   
  
The laughter ceased immediately. Wilbur coughed.  
  
“I’m gonna ask my father ‘bout those books of yours.” He declared, trying to appear unperturbed by her threat. “If there’s anythin’ interestin’, I’ll tel ye.”  
  
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Carrie said with her sweetest smile, which was somewhat worse than her threats. “I was also hoping that you’d mention that book you’re clutching for dead life…”  
  
It was Wilbur’s turn to ignore her now. His ears twitched again.  
  
“Ah, it’s comin’ closer.”  
  
“What’s comi…”  
  
Something landed on the roof with the swiftness and soundlessness of a ray of starlight. It was a chimera of some sort – one that had been born, rather than bred. It was simultaneously a bird and a mammal and an insect and a sentient being and a mindless slave and nothing of those but something else entirely.    
  
In short, it was a Byakhee.   
  
Wilbur glanced at Carrie and noticed the blank expression on her face as she studied the creature’s body – those looks like wings, those are supposed to be legs, that’s probably the head, the thing that’s glaring at me is an most likely an eye; almost as if she was preparing to dissect it.   
  
Mildly entertained, he thought that he would like to see her try.   
  
He got off the chimney and carefully put the book in one of his coat’s pockets before straightening to his full height. Balancing on the roof-tiles, he stepped closer to the Byakhee while crooning in Aklo.   
  
It allowed him to stroke its muzzle, eventually leaning into the touch. Once it had licked his palm to mark him as its own, Wilbur began pulling at the tentacle-like protrusions around what could pass for a neck, until he managed to get the creature to shift sideways so that he could climb on its back. Not letting go of the tentacle-reins, he dug his heels into the Byakhee’s sides. It unfurled its wings, which were large enough to cover Crowninshield House’s entire roof.  
  
Riding was one of the few things Wilbur both enjoyed and excelled at. He had not ridden a horse since his grandfather’s death, mainly because of his growth spurt, and he had not ridden on his brother’s back since his brother attempted to bite off his tail.    
  
Carrie’s whistle made him start.   
  
“So what, you’ve got a pony now?”   
  
Wilbur had almost forgotten about her. The stubborn girl was still sitting on her chimney, occasionally dangling her legs. What was even worse, she was getting… cheeky.  
  
“Seriously, you’re going to fly off to Greenland on a freaking pony from outer space?”   
  
Wilbur ignored her jab at his chosen method of transportation.   
  
“I’ve two things to ask from ye, White. One – stay away from my girlfriend, and two – cut off that self-righteous crap yer so fond of spoutin’.”  
  
That wiped the smirk off her face.  
  
“Excuse you!”  
  
“Just admit that ye enjoy murderin’ things. Nobody’s gonna judge ye, and if someone does, ye just kill ‘em. Simple as that.”  
  
Carrie blinked at him owlishly a couple of times before shrugging.  
  
“Whatever, Whateley. It’s just your opinion.”   
  
She jumped to her feet and into the air. In her annoyance, however, she forgot to strike her usual ‘angelic’ pose – instead, she seemed to freeze mid-jump, with her neck craned all the way forward, her arms spread without being raised higher than her waist, and her knees bent slightly. It only lasted a couple of seconds, but it triggered something in Wilbur’s mind.  
  
Carrie half-flew, half-slid down the roof and on the street, where she began walking – away from Crowninshield House.  
  
Wilbur waited for her silhouette to disappear into the shadows. Once she was gone, he whispered a command in Aklo that summed up the route of his journey.  
  
One flap of wings later, the Byakhee and its rider were gone too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here were have the epilogue, where I set up the scene for a possible sequel. Because apparently I never learn.
> 
> ***  
> Thank you for reading this, thank you for not pelting me with rotten tomatoes, and thank you for being my inspiration! :D


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